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THE 


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WINTHROP  lACKWORTH  PRIED 


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IN    TWO    VOLUMES 


VOL    I 


R  E  D  F  I  P]  L  D 

3  4   BKEKMAN   STREET   NEW   YORK 

18  60 


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Eiiteretl  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1859,  by 

J.    S     REDFIELD, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  tlie  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southera 

District  of  New  York. 


EDWAED   O.    JENKINS, 

printer  &  Sttifotoper, 
No.  26  Fkankfokt  Street. 


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•  •               ♦                > 

t'  «  »               I          CI 

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CONTENTS, 

VOL.   I. 

Preface yji 

Biographical  Introduction xiii 

Lillian 13 

The  Bridal  of  Belmont 31 

The  Red  Fisherman  ,        .        ....        .48 

The  Legend  of  the  Haunted  Tree      ....  57 

The  Troubadour Tl 

The  Legend  of  the  Teufel-Haus         .        .       .        .  121 
Every-Day  Characters: 

L — The  Yicae 131 

II.— Quince 135 

in. — Tub  Belle  of  the  Ball        ....  139 

A  Fragment-  of  a  Ballad 143 

The  Covenanter's  Lament  for  Bothwell  Brigg    .        .150 

Hope  and  Love 153 

Private  Theatricals 156 

Alexander  and  Diogenes 159 

Utopia 1G2 

Palinodia 166 

Hobbledehoys 170 

To  a  Lady 173 

Confessions 178 

Sybil's  Letter 182 

H 


.'y.MGl)2 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Our  Ball   .  ■ 185 

My  Partxer •        .  189 

Letter  from  Miss  Amelia  Jane  Mortimer       .        .        .193 

Ax  Old-Fashioned   Recipe 198 

GOOD-XIGHT 201 

JOSEPUIXE 203 

Marston  Moor 20G 

Stanzas 210 

Twexty-eioht  and  Twenty-nine 212 

How  shall  I  "Woo  Her? 21G 

Stanzas        ...        - 218 

The  Confession  of  Don  Carlos      .....  221 

To  Julia 225 

Lines  to  Florence 232 

Stanzas 235 

Cassandra 237 

Sonnet  to  Ada            240 

My  Little  Cousins 241 

AuMiNius 243 

Verses  on  Seeing  the  Speaker  Asleep        .        .        .  246 

I  Remember  how  my  Childhood  Fleeted        .        .        .  248 

Memory 249 

Tell  Him  I  Love  Him  Tet .251 

Stanzas 253 

Stanzas  Written  in  Lady  Myrtle's  Boccaccio       .        .  255 

Epitaph  on  the  late  King  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  259 

The  Chant  of  the  Brazen  Head 264 

Charades : 

I. — There  was  a  time  young  Roland  thought  .  268 

11. — Sir  Harry  was  famed          ....  270 

III. — Morning  is  Beaming 271 

IV. — My  First  v.' as  dark  o'er  Earth  and  Air    .  272 

V. — Come  from  jiy  First,  ay,  come        .        .        .  272 

VI. — Sir  Hilary  charged  at  Agincourt    .         .     *  273 


II 


CONTENTS.  V 

VII. — He  talked  of  Daggers  and  of  Darts    .        .214 

VIII. — My  First  came  forth  in  Booted  State       .  275 

IX.— I  GRACED  Don  Pedro's  revelry    .        .        .  2TG 

X. — Alas  I    for  th.vt  forgotten  day'        .        .  277 

XI. — On  THE  casement  FRAME  THE  wind  beat  HIGH  278 

XII. — The  canvas  rattled  on  the  mast         .        .  279 

XIII. — Uncouth  was  I  of  face  and  form   .        .  2S0 

XIV. — Lord  Ronald  by  the  rich  torchlight         .  28 1 

XV.— One  gxy  my  First  young  Cupid  made      .  283 

XVI. — The  Indian  Lover  burst        ....  284 

XVII. — When  Ralph  by  holy  hands  ivas  tied     .  285 

XVIII.-  A  Templar  kneel'd  at  a  Friar's  knee         .  286 

XIX. — Row  ox,  ROW  ON  1 — The  First  may  light    .  287 

XX.— My  First,  in  torrents  bleak  and  black       .  288 

XXL — The  widow  Jones  is  fair  and  fat     .        .  289 

XXII.— There  kneels  in  holy  St.  Cuthbert's  aisles  290 

XXIII. — In  other  day's,  when  hope  was  bright    .  292 

XXIV. — My  First's  an  airy  thing     ....  29.3 

XXV.— Count  Harold 294 

L'Envoi 301 

XXVI. — Queen  Bess  will  take  the  air  to-day    .  302 

XXVII. — I   CARE   not,    since   OUR  LOT   IS   CAST            .           .  304 

XXVIII. — Upon  a  cold  December  night   .        .         .  306 

XXIX. — He  told  her  he  had  bent  the  knee  .        .  308 

XXX. — Sir  Geoffrey  lay  in  his  cushioned  chair  309 


PBEFACE. 


It  is  not  pretended  that  this  collection  contains  all  the  poems 
written  by  Praed, — not  even  all  that  were  published  by  him. 
/The  object  of  this  present  edition  is  but  to  add  a  few  to  those 
already  discovered  and  collectively  issued,  to  answer  the  desires 
of  a  widely  spread  body  of  admirers  of  this  author,  until  a  more 
complete  and  authentic  edition  shall  be  published  by  his  family. 

Of  course,  the  most  important  duty  of  the  editor  of  this  edition 
must  be,  to  state  clearly  the  sources  whence  these  poems  are 
derived,  and  to  prove  their  authenticity.  This  we  proceed  to  do 
briefly. 

The  second  edition  of  the  Etonian  has  at  the  end  the  valedic- 
tory of  the  editors,  Walter  Blunt  and  Winthrop  Mackworth 
Praed.  Immediately  preceding  this  is  a  list  of  the  contributors 
and  their  several  productions.  We  find  under  Praed's  name  the 
following  poetical  pieces  :  '  The  Eve  of  Battle,' '  Laura,'  '  Con- 
fession of  Don  Carlos,'  '  Lines  to  Julio,'  '  Lines  to  Julia,'  '  Ma- 
rius  amidst  the  Ruins  of  Carthage,'  '  Lines  to  Florence,'  '  The 
County  Ball,'  'The  Bachelor,'  'Changing  Quarters,'  'Gog,' 
'  Sonnet  to  Ada,'  '  Reminiscences,'  '  Scrap-Book,'  and  '  Surly 
Hall.' 

Tlic  Poems  of  '  Athens '  and  'Australia '  arc  taken  from  the 
official  publication  of  the  Cambridge  Prize  Poems,  from  1813 — 
1858  (Cambridge,  1859). 

[vu] 


via  PREFACE. 

The  publisher  of  the  Etonian  was  the  well-known  publisher 
and  writer  Charles  Knight,  who,  in  1846,  in  the  Penny  Maga- 
zine, gave  a  brief  memoir  of  Praed,  and  some  examples  of  his 
writings.  In  1823  Knight  started  '  Knight's  Quarterly  Maga- 
zine,' to  which  he  says  "  Mr.  Praed  contributed  much  prose  and 
more  verse."  He  mentions  particularly  '  The  Troubadour,'  and 
copies  fourteen  "  Enigmas  "  by  our  author,  which  are  Nos.  6,  7, 
and  9 — 20  inclusive,  of  those  printed  in  this  collection.  The 
writers  in  Knight's  Magazine  all  used  one  or  more  noms  de  plume, 
and  as  several  of  these  "  Enigmas  "  occur  there  over  the  signa- 
ture of '  Vyvyan  Joyeuse,'  we  feel  persuaded  that  we  are  right 
in  attributing  all  thus  signed  to  Praed,  especially  as  the  intei-- 
nal  evidence  corroborates  this  idea.  '  Peregrine  Courteuay,'  a 
favorite  pseudonym  of  his  in  the  '  Etonian,'  is  also  found  iu 
Knight  as  the  author  of '  The  Troubadour.'  Vyvyan  Joyeuse 
contributed  '  Give  me  a  low  and  humble  Mound,'  '  My  first 
Folly,'  (which  Knight  assures  Praed  wrote,)  '  What  you  Will,' 
'  Song,'  and  Charades  Nos.  6, 10, 11, 16, 18,  23  and  24.  Pater- 
son  Aymar  seems  to  have  been  his  favorite  signature  for  his 
prose  pieces  and  editorials. 

In  the  Literary  Souvenir,  (London,  1827,)  edited  by  Alaric 
A.  Watts,  was  published  '  Alexander  and  Diogenes,'  with  the 
author's  name. 

In  the  same,  in  1830,  were  '  The  Legend  of  the  Drachenfels ' 
and  '  L'Envoi,'  "  by  Praed,"  and  '  Memory,'  and  '  How  shall  I 
woo  Her,'  "by  the  author  of  Lilian."  In  1831  'The  Legend  of 
the  Haunted  Tree,'  'Cassandra,'  'The  Belle  of  the  Ball-Eoom,' 
and  '  My  Little  Cousins,'  "  by  the  author  of  Lilian,"  appeared. 

In  1832,  '  Stanzas  written  in  Lady  Myrtle's  Boccaccio,'  '  I'he 
Bridal  of  Belmont,'  '  Stanzas,'  were  all  stated  to  be  "  by  the  Au- 
thor of  Lilian." 

In  1828  Knight  edited  the  London  Magazine,  to  which  he 
says  Praed  contributed  several  papers.     "  We  print  one  of  the 


PREFACE.  ix 

prose  articles — '  The  Best  Bat  in  School.'  "  It  becomes  prob- 
able from  this  phrase  that  Praed  wrote  some  poetry  for  the 
Magazine,  and  we  find  accordingly  several  poems  in  his  style, 
aU  signed  ?,  which  we  feel  confident  are  to  be  attributed  to 
himy — an  opinion  shared  by  tho  previous  editor.  The  new 
'  Monthly  Magazine  opened  a  wide  field,  in  whiph  Dr.  Griswold* 
had  labored  but  sparingly.  All  the  poems  that  we  assume  were 
written  by  Praed  in  this  periodical  are  signed  0,  with  the  single 
exception  of  "  Josephine,"  which  we  did  not  venture  to  omit,  as 
Dr.  Griswold  may  have  had  other  evidence  of  its  authenticity. 
One  of  the  poems  signed  <p  we  are  assured  Praed  wrote,  by  the 
following  authority.  The  London  Magazine  in  1828  quoted 
frota  "  My  Partner,"  expressly  mentioning  Praed  as  the  author. 
Now,  unless  we  can  imagine  that  our  poet  valued  his  reputation 
so  little  as  to  permit  another  to  imitate  his  writings  over  a  sig- 
nature used  by  him,  we  are  forced  to  accept  all  these  poems  as 
rightfully  belonging  in  this  collection. 

In  one  of  the  'Annuals,'  also,  we  find  two  pieces  thus  signed, 
side  by  side  with  those  bearing  his  name,  and  if  we  prefer  to 
accept  the  more  apparent  explanation  of  all  this,  and  pronounce 
all  these  to  be  Praed's,  we  can  assure  our  readers  that  the  im- 
itator, if  ever  found,  will  only  divide  the  laurels  :  they  need  not 
be  afraid  of  admiring  an  impostor,  for  <l>,  single  or  duplicate,  is 
identical  in  spirit  with  what  we  have  been  accustomed  to  ad- 
mire as  Praed. 

"We  will  even  confess  that  the  series  of  Charades  published 
in  the  Xew  Monthly  Magazine  continued  after  Praed's  death, 
believing,  as  we  do,  that  the  manuscript  may  have  been  in  the 
editor's  hands. 

"We  will  further  own,  that  a  poem  entitled  '  Pellets  for  Pros- 
ers,'  and  signed  (p,  appeared  in  the  same  book,  dated  'Athenaeum 
Club,  Feb.  23,  1841.'     But  remembering  that  the  metre  is  dif- 
•  Editor  of  the  former  edition. 


X  PEEFACE. 

fcrent  from  Pracd's,  and  that  Theodore  Hook  was  the  editor, 
we  may  imagine  this  to  be  one  of  his  numerous  hoaxes,  intended 
to  cover  the  loss  of  his  vahiable  contributor,  if  we  are  unwilling 
to  concede  that  the  use  of  the  signature  was  a  mere  accident, 
which  was  never  repeated. 

Li  reply  to  the  inquiry  why  no  English  edition  of  these  poems 
has  appeared,  we  can  only  say  that  repeated  announcements  of 
its  preparation  have  appeared,  and  the  causes  of  its  delay  are 
unknown  to  the  reading  world.  The  cause  of  the  publication 
here  may  best  be  told  in  the  words  of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Rufus 
W.  Griswold.* 

"  The  writer  of  this  preface,  while  a  boy,  was  accustomed  to 
read  with  delight  the  pieces  of  Praed  as  they  appeared  in  our 
periodicals,  and  when  news  came  of  the  poet's  death,  he  directed 
the  importation  of  a  copy  of  his  works,  and  was  surprised  witi 
the  information  that  they  had  never  been  collected ;  but  the 
bookseller  who  had  ordered  them  fi-om  London,  Mr.  Langley, 
whose  store  was  then  in  the  Astor  House,  readily  undertook  the 
publication  of  as  many  of  his  compositions  as  were  accessible  in 
old  souvenirs  and  magazines,  and  the  result  was  the  only  volume 
of  them  hitherto  printed,  a  volume  which  now  has  become  rare. 

The  present  (1852)  edition  of  these  poems  is  much 

more  full  than  any  hitherto  published."  This  edition,  published 
by  Mr.  Redfield,  was  reprinted  in  1854,  and  with  a  few  addi- 
tions in  1856.  Having  kindly  accepted  the  services  of  the  pres- 
ent editor,  he  now  is  able  to  claim  the  renewed  attention  of 
those  who  admired  the  sportive  fancy  of '  Lilian,'  and  the  spir- 
ited delineations  of  the  '  Every-day  Characters.' 

It  has  been  deemed  advisable  to  annex  to  tlie  '  Charades,'  by 
which  our  author's  renown  has  1)een  so  widely  extended,  a  se- 
ries of  replies,  not  intended  to  prevent  the  exercise  of  the  read- 

•  Preface  to  the  former  edition. 


PREFACE.  XI 

er's  ingenuity,  but  to  commemorate,  in  some  measure,  the  extent 
of  tlie  appreciation  of  his  merits. 

Finally,  if  the  editor  is  enabled  to  afiford  a  single  reader  a 
renewal  of  the  pleasure  which  he  experienced  when  he  first  read 
the  volume,  he  will  deem  his  labor  well  repaid. 

w.  n.  w. 

Boston,  May,  1859. 


BIOaRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTIOjS-. 

WiNTHROP  Mackworth  Praed  was  born  at  London,  in  1802. 
His  father  was  a  lawj'er  of  eminence,  and  his  family  ranked 
among  the  gentry,  a  line  of  distinction  very  clearly  drawn. 
His  pedigree  has  a  farther  claim  on  our  attention,  as  it  shows 
his  affiliation  to  a  branch  of  that  Winthrop  family  which  has  so 
fruitfully  blossomed  on  the  shores  of  the  New  World.  At  an 
early  age  he  was  placed  at  Eton,  where  he  won  a  high  reputa- 
tion for  his  proficiency  in  the  classics.  He  was  destined,  how- 
ever, to  win  here  higher  prizes  than  reward  the  studies  of  the 
school-boy.  He  established  in  1820  the  Etonian,  as  a  school 
Magazine.  In  his  editorial  labors  he  was  assisted  by  Walter 
Blunt,  a  King's  scholar,  but  he  himself  was  the  life  of  the  enter- 
prise. His  contributors  were  Edmund  Beale,  William  Chrich- 
ton,  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge,  Hon.  Francis  Curzon,  Eichard 
Durnford,  Charles  Fursdon,  John  ]\Ioultrie,  Henry  Neech, 
William  Henry  Ord,  Thomas  Powys  Outr«,m,  John  Louis  Petit, 
Walter  Trower,  and  William  Sydney  Walker  ;  several  of  whom 
have  well  redeemed  the  promise  of  their  youth.  His  productions 
at  this  time  were  numerous,  and  of  great  variety.  Prose  and 
poetry,  essays,  sketches,  tales,  sonnets  and  satires,  all  were  writ- 
ten with  a  spirit  and  profusion  which  become,  the  more  remark- 
able when  we  remember  his  daily  routine  of  tasks  well  learned, 
and  daily  sports  zealously  pursued  and  enjoyed.  These  early 
efforts  of  his  pen  were  no  school  compositions,  to  be  suppressed 
by  a  maturer  judgment ;  his  sketches  of  the  little  of  life  which 

[xiii] 


XIV  BIOGRAPHICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

had  passed  before  his  eyes  possess  the  same  keenness  of  percep- 
tion and  smoothness  of  rhythm  which  render  his  later  poems  so 
true  and  graceful. 

Four  editions  of  the  Etonian  were  called  for  by  the  public, 
and  a  copy  now  is  to  be  found  only  by  the  most  diligent  research. 
In  1828,  the  Loudon  j\Iagazine,  a  high  authority,  says,  in  men- 
tioning one  of  the  "Annuals,"  "  The  writers  appear  to  be  chiefly 
formed  from  a  sett  known  to  the  world  as  the  writers  of  the 
Etonian,  one  of  the  best  books  ever  written  by  young  men, 
though  at  the  same  time  a  work  not  of  much  promise  of  either 
depth  or  strength  ;  their  talents  are  of  a  calibre  well  adapted 
for  an  annual,  brisk,  pointed,  and  polished."  Later  in  the  same 
year,  the  same  authority  rebuked  an  attempt  to  publish  another 
magazine  at  Eton,  "  with  the  memory  of  the  '  Etonian '  still 
fresh  at  Eton, — with  its  exquisite  poetry,  its  playful  wit,  its 
keen  satire,  its  precocious  knowledge,  living  in  the  public — not 
the  local  mind."  These  extracts  will  prove  that  Praed  and  his 
fellow-workers  had  achieved  high  distinction  before  they  had 
arrived  at  the  dignity  and  responsibilities  of  manliood.  His 
success  undoubtedly  influenced  his  future  career.  His  verses 
teem  with  allusions  to  his  happy  life  at  Eton,  and  not  even  his 
success  at  Cambridge  seems  to  have  effaced  his  fondness  for  his 
early  pleasures,  and  the  scene  of  his  first  triumphs. 

Prom  Eton  he  went  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where  he 
obtained  an  unprecedented  number  of  prizes.  In  1822  he  was 
a  Brown's  Medalist,  botli  for  the  Greek  ode  and  epigrams  ;  in 

1823  for  the  Greek  ode ;   in  1824  for  epigrams.    In  1823  and 

1824  he  also  took  the  Chancellor's  Medal  for  an  English  poem, 
in  the  former  year  offering  "Australia,  in  the  latter,  "Athens." 

On  leaving  the  University  he  settled  in  London  and  studied 
law  ;  and  in  1829  he  was  called  to  the  bar.  During  his  stay  at 
Cambridge  he  was  one  of  the  chief  speakers  in  the  great  Cam- 
bridge Debating   Society,  the  "  Union,"  where  his  principal 


BIOGRAPHICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XV 

opponent  was  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay.     In  June,  1823, 
appeared  the  first  number  of  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine,  edited 
by  Charles  Knight,  since  well  known  as  an  enterprising  London 
publisher  and  editor.     The  brilliant  college  debaters  found  here 
at  neutral  ground,  and  labored  to  achieve  a  high  position  for 
their  chosen  organ.     In  this  they  succeeded,  and  the  untimely 
end  of  the  enterprise  was  due  to  no  apathy  on  the  part  of  the 
public,  but  to  irregularities  in  the  fulfillment  of  promises,  which 
prevented  the  editor  from  feeling  a  certainty  of  a  prompt  issue 
of  the  successive  numbers.     In  fine,  though  the  contributors 
were  zealous,  they  did  not  appreciate  the  importance  of  keeping 
the  printer  supplied  with  copy.     In  the  Etonian,  the  productions 
'  were  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  the  members  of  an  association 
called  the  "  King  of  Clubs,"  whereof  Praed  was  at  once  presi- 
dent and  secretary,  under  two  different  names.     The  sketches  of 
the  different  members  were  well  touched  by  the  pen  of  the  sec- 
retary, Richard  Hodgson,  and  the  characters  were  well  main- 
tained in  the  report  of  the  different  meetings.     In  Knight's 
Quarterly  Magazine  a  similar  arrangement  was  made,  and  the 
admirers  of  Lady  Mary  Vernon  met  in  her  presence  to  repeat 
their  verses  and  criticise  each  others  productions.    The  favorite 
character  of  Praed  in  this  collection  was  Yyvyan  Joyeuse,  whose 
appearance  he  thus  described  :  "A  tall  thi»  youth,  with  long 
sallow  features,  thick  brown  hair  curled  attentively,  and  small 
grey  eyes."     This  imitation  of  the  famous  "  Noctcs  Ambro- 
sianaj "  has  been  pronounced  by  a  good  authority  to  be  "  lively, 
well  written,  with  the  character  of  each  speaker  w'ell  individual- 
ized," and  "  the  only  good  copy  of  the  original  yet  produced." 
Wilson  evidently  appreciated  the  talent  of  his  young  follower, 
for  in  No.  12  of  the  Noctcs  he  introduced  Vyvyan  Joyeuse  as 
an  interlocutor,  a  rare  distinction,  and  thus  praised  the  Maga- 
zine :     "  It  is  a  gentlemanly  miscellany,  got  together  by  a  clan 
of  young  scholars,  who  look  upon  the  world  with  a  cheerful  eye 


XVI  BIOGEAPIIICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

and  all  its  on-goings  with  a  spirit  of  hopeful  kiuduess.  I  canuot 
but  envy  them  their  gay  juvenile  temper,  so  free  from  gall  and 
spite ;  and  am  pleased  to  the  heart's  core  with  their  elegant 
accomplishments.  Their  egotism  is  the  joyous  freedom  of  exult- 
ing life  ;  and  they  see  all  things  in  a  glow  of  enthusiasm  which 
makes  ordinary  objects  beautiful,  and  beauty  still  more  beaute- 
ous."    "  Do  you  wish  for  my  advice,  my  young  friend  ?" 

Mr.  Joyeuse.  "  Upon  honor,  Sir  Christopher,  I  am  quite 
overpowered.  Forgive  me  when  I  confess  that  I  had  my  mis- 
givings on  entering  your  presence.  But  they  are  all  vanished. 
Believe  me  that  I  value  most  highly  the  expression  of  your  good- 
will and  friendly  sentiments  towards  myself  and  coadjutors." 

North.  "  Love  freedom — continue,  I  ought  to  say,  to  love  it ; 
and  prove  your  love  by  defending  all  the  old  sacred  institutions 
of  this  great  land.  Keep  aloof  fi'om  all  association  with  base 
ignorance,  and  presumption,  and  imposture.  Let  all  your  sen- 
timents be  kind,  generous  and  manly,  and  your  opinions  will  be 
safe  ;  for  the  heart  and  the  head  are  the  only  members  of  the 
Ploly  Alliance,  and  woe  unto  all  men  when  they  are  not  in  Union. 
Give  us  some  more  of  your  classical  learning, — more  of  the 
sparkling  treasures  of  your  scholarship,  for  in  that  all  our  best 
miscellanies  are  somewhat  deficient,  (mine  own  not  excepted,) 
and  you  may  here  lead  the  way.  Are  you  not  Etonians,  Wyke- 
amists,  Oxonians,  and  Cautabs,  and  in  the  finished  grace  of 
manhood  ?  Don't  forget  your  classics."  We  shall  see  hereafter 
other  proofs  of  Blackwood's  interest  in  the  success  of  his  'young 
friend.' 

The  other  leading  contributors  to  Knight's  Quarterly  were 
Macaulay,  John  Moultrie,  Channcey  Hare  Townsend,  and 
Charles  Knight.  To  this  periodical  Praed  "  contributed  much 
prose  and  more  poetry. 

"  In  1826  the  writer"  (we  quote  from  a  brief  memoir  of  Praed 
by  Charles  Knight,)  "  and  his  friend  Barry  St.  Leger.  of  whose 


BIOGEAPHICAL   INTBODUCTION.  XVU 

original  talent,  too  soon  to  be  extinguished,  we  may  give  some 
examples, — projected  a  weekly  sheet,  which  might  anmse  the 
town  with  some  light  reading,  at  a  time  when  society  was  dull 
enough,  after  the  great  commercial  panic.  Mr.  Praed,  who  then 
resided  at  Eton,  cordially  joined  in  the  scheme,  and  the  name  of 
'  llie  Brazen  Head  '  was  adopted— an  unfortunate  name,  which 
the  town  did  not  understand.  The  work  had  no  success  what- 
ever, although  Praed's  contributions  were  among  his  best  efforts. 
He  took  the  management  of  the  oracular  decrees  of  '  The  Bra- 
zen Head  ;'  and  fun  and  wisdom  were  mingled  in  the  sententious 
creation  of  Friar  Bacon,  in  a  sort  of  philosophy  of  which  the 
inventor  of  gunpowder  and  spectacles  could  have  no  concep- 
tion." 

About  this  time,  also,  or  perhaps  a  little  earlier,  an  attempt 
was  made  by  Praed  and  his  friends  to  establish  a  successor  to 
Knight's  Quarterly,  concerning  which  Wilson  writes  in  No.  19 
of  the  'Noctes :' 

Shepherd.  "  Oh !  Mr.  North — my  dear  freen',  I  was  sorry, 
sorry  when  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine  took  a  pain  in  its  head, 
and  gied  a  wamle  ower  the  counter  in  the  dead-thraws.  It  was 
rather  incomprehensible  to  me,  for  the  niaist  part,  wi'  its  Italien 
literature,  and  the  lave  o't ;  but  the  contributors  were  a  set  o' 
spunkie  chiels — collegians,  as  I  understan',  frae  Cambridge 
College.      What's  become  o'  them  now  that  their  Journal  is 

dead  ?" 

North.  "  I  think  I  see  them,  like  so  many  resurrection  men, 
digging  up  the  Album.  Yes,  Hogg,  they  are  clever,  accom- 
plished chaps,  with  many  little  pleasing  impertinences  of  their 
own,  and  may  make  a  figure.  How  asinine  not  to  have  marched 
a  levy  en  masse  into  Ebony's  sanctum  sanctorum .'" 

Shepherd.  "  I  never  thocbt  o'  that  before.  So  it  was.  But 
then,  ye  behave  sae  cavalierly  to  contributors  !  It's  an  awfii 
tLinjr  to  be  Ijuricd  alive  in  the  Balaam-Box  !" 


XVni  BIOGRAPHICAL    INTRODUCTION. 

Again  in  tlio  twenty-second  '  Noctcs  '  lie  -writes  — 

North.  "  Macauley  and  Praed  have  written  very  good 
prize  poems.  These  two  young  gentlemen  ought  to  make  a 
figure  in  the  world.  By  the  way,  you  would  be  glad,  Tickler, 
that  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine  is  rediviva  ? 

Tickler.  I  was  so.  May  it  flourish.  It  is  an  able  and  ele- 
gant miscellany." 

We  presume  our  readers  are  fully  satisfied  that  the  expecta- 
tions of  the  friends  of  the  '  Etonian '  were  speedily  realized,  and 
that  our  author,  before  entering  upon  the  more  serious  labors  of 
his  life,  had  established  a  reputation  among  the  most  independ- 
ent and  fastidious  critics. 

We  find  that  during  the  period  of  his  study  of  the  law,  our 
author  found  time  to  contribute  to  the  magazines  of  the  day. 
The  "  Annuals  "  were  then  in  the  height  of  success,  and  though 
we  may  now  wonder  at  the  enthusiasm  with  which  their  tiny 
engravings  were  received,  we  must  confess  that  many  of  them 
afforded  their  readers  a  profusion  of  poetry  of  a  high  order. 
Pringle,  Moir  (A),  Tennyson,  Letitia  E.  Landon,  nay,  Scott 
and  Byron,  were  contented  to  fill  these  pages.  The  style  of 
Praed,  and  his  favorite  subjects,  were  alike  suited  to  these  dainty 
productions  of  the  press.  For  them  he  wrote  much,  and  his 
master-piece, '  The  Red  Fisherman,'  appeared  in  the  Friendship's 
Offering,  then  edited  by  his  friend  Knight.  The  New  Monthly 
Magazine  was  also  a  favorite  of  his,  and  many  of  the  poems  here 
presented  have  been  gleaned  from  its  pages.  In  1828-9,  when 
Knight  edited  the  London  Magazine,  Praed,  "  in  the  old  friendly 
spirit,  contributed  several  papers." 

We  have  thus  briefly  glanced  at  the  literary  career  of  the  au- 
thor, and  may  now  turn  to  watch  his  more  serious  movements. 
In  1830  and  1831  he  was  returned  to  Parliament  for  the  borough 
of  St.  Germain,  in  Cornwall. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION.  X3X 

Here  he  seems  to  have  soon  taken  a  prominent  position 
among  the  younger  Conservatives  as  an  effective  debater.  Dur- 
ing the  extended  debates  on  the  Reform  Bill  he  spoke  often  and 
well,  and  was  noticed  by  Blackwood  as  a  rising  man,  with  such 
leaders  as  the  Lords  Ashley,  Mahon  and  Porchester,  and  the 
commoners  Pusey,  "Walsh,  and  Wrangham.  In  1832  he  unsuc- 
cessfully contested  St.  Ives.  From  December,  1834,  to  April, 
1835,  he  held  the  place  of  Secretary  of  the  Board  of  Control, 
and  in  1835  he  was  returned  for  Great  Yarmouth.  During  this 
period  of  comparative  freedom  from  public  labors,  we  may  pre- 
sume he  reflected  on  the  dreary  condition  of  a  Bachelor's  life. 
Perhaps  the  example  of  his  early  friend  Moultrie,  who  addressed 
the  following  sonnet  to  him,  may  have  had  some  influence  upon 
him,  and  have  overcome  the  specious  pleadings  of  Tom  Quince  : 

I. 

In  youth  and  early  manhood  thou  and  I 

Through  this  world's  path  walked  bhthely  side  by  side, 

Unlike,  and  yet  by  kindred  aims  allied, 

Both  courting  one  coy  mistress — Poesy. 

Those  days  are  over,  and  our  paths  now  Ue 

Apart,  dissevered  by  a  space  as  wide 

As  the  blank  realms  which  heaven  and  earth  divide, 

And  widening  day  by  day  continually. 

Each  hath  forsaken  the  sweet  Muses'  shrine 

For  cares  more  serious  ;  thou  for  wordy  strife 

And  senatorial  toils, — how  unlike  mine  ! 

Who  lead  the  country  pastor's  humble  life. 

Sweetening  its  cares  with  joys  denied  to  thine. 

Fair  children  and  a  loved  and  loving  wife. 


So  sang  I  all  unwitting  of  the  prize, 
Which  tliou  meanwhile  hadst  won,  and  wearest  now. 
The  fairest  garland  that  cnwreathcs  thy  brow, 
Crowned  though  it  be  for  youth's  ricli  jiliantasics 
And  manhood's  virtues,  by  the  good  an<l  wise, 
With  well-earned  laurel.     I  have  witnessed  how 
Tliy  whole  heart  honors  the  blest  nuptial  vow  ; 
IIdw  well  beeorao  thee  tliis  world's  tenderest  ties  ; 


XX  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

And  sUuUier  now  doth  my  mind's  eye  repose 
On  thy  briglit  home, — thy  liroatliiug-times  of  rest 
From  ])ublic  turmoil, — ou  the  love  th;it  glows 
In  the  fond  father's  and  the  husband's  breast, 
Than  on  thy  well-waged  strifes  with  factious  foes 
Or  lettered  triumphs,  e'en  by  them  confessed. 


In  youth's  impetuous  days  thy  heart  was  warm, 

Thy  tongue  unchecked,  thy  spirit  bold  and  high, 

With  such  blind  zeal  for  miscalled  liberty, 

That  friend  and  foe  looked  on  thee  with  alarm. 

But  since  maturer  years  dispelled  the  charm 

And  weaned  thee  from  thy  first  idolatry. 

With  what  foul  gibes  doth  faction's  spiteful  fry, 

Venting  its  rage  around  thee,  shriek  and  swarm  : 

Recreant  or  regenade,  the  mildest  name 

With  which  they  greet  thee  ;  but  thy  heart  meanwhile 

Is  pure  beyond  the  reach  of  venal  blame, 

Free,  firm,  unstained  by  selfishness  or  guile, 

Too  noble  for  even  party  to  defile  : 

If  thou  art  faithless,  let  me  he  the  same. 


At  all  events,  he  married,*  July  7, 1^35,  Helen,  daughter  of  G. 
Bogle,  Esq. 

We  nave  the  following  sketch  of  his  appearance  at  this  time, 
from  the  pen  of  N.  P.  Willis,  Esq. : 

"  It  was  our  good  fortune  when  first  in  England  (in  1834  or 
'35,)  to  be  a  guest  at  the  same  hospitable  country-house  for  sev- 
eral weeks.  The  party  there  assembled  was  somewhat  a  famous 
one — Miss  Jane  Porter,  Miss  Julia  Pardoe,  Krazinski,  (the 
Polish  historian,)  Sir  Gardiner  Wilkinson,  (the  Oriental  travel- 
ler,) venerable  Lady  Cork,  ('  Lady  Bellair  '  of  D'Israeli's  novel,) 


*0n  the  24th  Feb.,  1835,  his  father,  William  Mackworth  Praed,  died  at  Bit- 
ton,  near  Teignmouth,  Co.  Devon,  aged  18.  Ho  was  sergeant-at-law,  and  for  a 
long  time  Chairman  of  the  Audit  Office.  He  left,  beside  our  author,  two  sons  ; 
one  a  barrister,  the  other  connected  with  the  banking  business,  which  wo 
believe  had  been  long  conducted  by  dilTereut  branches  of  the  i«aily. 


BIOGEAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

and  several  persons  more  distinguished  in  society  than  in  litera- 
ture. Praed,  we  believe,  had  not  been  long  married,  but  'ne  was 
there  with  his  wife.  He  was  apparently  about  thirty-five,  tall, 
and  of  dark  complexion,  with  a  studious  bend  in  his  shoulders, 
and  of  irregular  features  strongly  impressed  with  melancholy. 
His  manners  were  particularly  reserved,  though  as  unassuming 
as  they  well  could  be.  His  exquisitely  beautiful  poem  of  '  Lil- 
lian '  was  among  the  pet  treasures  of  the  Lady  of  the  house, 
and  we  had  all  been  indulged  with  a  sight  of  it,  in  a  choicely 
bound  manuscript  copy, — but  it  was  hard  to  make  him  confess 
to  any  literary  habits  or  standing.  As  a  gentleman  of  ample 
means  and  retired  life,  the  kind  of  notice  drawn  upon  him  b} 
the  admiration  of  this  poem  seemed  distasteful.  His  habits 
were  very  secluded.  We  only  saw  him  at  table  and  in  the  even- 
ing ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  he  was  away  in  the  remote 
walks  and  woods  of  the  extensive  park  around  the  mansion, 
apparently  more  fond  of  solitude  than  of  anything  else.  Mr. 
Fraed's  mind  was  one  of  wonderful  readiness — rhythm  and 
rhyme  coming  to  him  with  the  flow  of  an  improvisatore.  The 
ladies  of  the  party  made  the  events  of  every  day  the  subjects 
of  charades,  epigrams,  sonnets,  etc.,  with  the  design  of  suggest- 
ing inspiration  to  his  ready  pen ;  and  he  was  most  brilliantly 
complying,  with  treasures  for  each  in  her  turn." 

In  1835  he  reentered  Parliament  as  member  for  Aylesbury, 
and  was  afterwards  Recorder  of  Barnstaple,  and  Deputy  High 
Steward  for  the  University  of  Cambridge,  but  the  career  thus 
opened  for  him  was  suddenly  terminated.  In  the  autumn  of 
1838  his  failing  health  obliged  him  to  give  up  his  appointments 
and  engagements,  and  he  died  on  the  fifteenth  of  July,  1839,  of 
consumption. 

It  has  been  asserted  that  his  public  life  was  a  failure,  and 
that  his  college  successes  would  have  remained  his  only  triumphs 
We  must  confess  tliat  we  see  nothing  to  support  tliis  view 


XXU  BIOGRAPHICAL    INTRODUCTIOX. 

either  on  recalling  what  he  attained  to,  or  on  noticing  the  pres- 
ent position  of  those  who  were  then  esteemed  only  his  equals. 
We  prefer  to  believe  that  his  talent  would  have  been  as  appar- 
ent in  the  debates  of  Parliament,  and  the  manifold  employments 
of  a  statesman,  as  it  had  been  in  the  gay  rivalries  of  his  youth. 
"  When  admitted  to  the  bar  he  went  the  Norfolk  circuit,  and 
was  rapidly  rising  till  his  parliamentary  duties  took  him  away 
from  his  profession."  The  formal  obituary  notice  v/bich  thus 
mentions  his  legal  attainments  also  notices  his  prominent  posi- 
tion as  a  political  man.  We  prefer  to  say  with  his  friend  Charles 
Knight, — "  The  two  great  speakers  of  the  Cambridge  Union, 
Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  and  Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed, 
sat  on  opposite  benches,  where  the  oratory  of  sport  had  become 
a  stern  reality.  The  one  has  fulfilled  all  the  hopes  of  his  youth ; 
the  other,  we  can  only  speak  of  him  with  unbidden  tears. 


■  But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find. 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears. 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     But  not  the  praise.' ' 


It  seems  almost  useless  to  add  any  remarks  upon  the  position 
which  should  be  assigned  to  our  Poet.  Few  writers  have  writ- 
ten purer  lines,  few  satirists  have  done  their  task  with  more 
gentleness.  While  we  laugh  at  the  follies  of  the  day  as  he 
portrays  them,  we  feel  that  the  very  subject  of  the  picture  would 
read  the  lines,  with  complacent  thoughts  at  the  skill  which  had 
individualized  him  as  his  own  ideal.  We  are  compelled  to  ad- 
mire not  only  the  truthfulness  of  the  poet,  but  his  facility  also. 

A  sturdy  critic  has  held  that  he  who  writes  easily  never  writes 
well ;  but  we  can  here  point  to  a  notable  contradiction  of  his 
rule.  It  seems  to  have  been  easier  for  Praed  to  write  melodious 
verse  than  for  others  to  write  nervous  prose.  Perhaps  we  may 
ascribe  to  this  cause  the  predominant  tone  of  his  poetry.     The 


BIOGRAPHICAL    INTRODUCTION.  XXIU 

light  and  graceM  touches  of  the  pencil  may  well  sketch  forth  a 
group  of  nymphs,  while  it  would  fail  to  do  justice  to  the  require- 
ments of  a  more  ambitious  subject.  Yet  as  the  taste  of  the 
reading  public  no  longer  demands  the  frightful  visions  of  souls 
despairing  and  lost,  the  stories  of  madness  and  death,  we  may 
well  expect  a  cordial  recognition  on  its  part  of  the  merits  of  a 
poet  whose  heart  was  always  responsive  to  the  charms  of  the  fire- 
side, and  a  true,  even  if  seemingly  prosaic  affection  ;  and  whose 
cheerful  determination  to  see  the  bright  side  of  everything  is 
visible  in  all  his  writings.  We  will  not  attempt  comparisons 
with  other  poets,  but  we  avow  our  belief  that  wherever  there 
shall  be  found  a  mind  which  appreciates  the  beauty  of  graceful 
thoughts  and  kindly  sentiments  expressed  in  flowing  lines  and 
melodious  cadences,  there  will  be  found  an  admirer  of  the  poetry 
of  Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed. 

W.  H.  W. 

Boitrm,  June  \sl,  1859. 


POEMS  BY  W.  M.  PRAED. 


LILLIAN  .* 


"  A  dragon's  tail  is  flayed  to  warm 

A  headless  maiden's  heart,"  •J'iM  ■ 


*  And  he's  cleckit  this  great  muckle  biid  oat  o'  this  wee  egg  I  he  could  wile  the  very  flounders  ooi 
u'  the  Frith  1"  -Ifr-  SaddUtru, 


CANTO   I. 

There  was  a  dragon  in  Arthur's  time, 

When  dragons  and  griffins  were  voted  "  prime," 

Of  monstrous  reputation : 
Up  and  down,  and  far  and  wide, 
He  roamed  about  in  his  scaly  pride  ; 
And  ever,  at  morn  and  even-tide, 
He  made  such  rivers  of  blood  to  run 
As  shocked  the  sight  of  the  blushing  sun, 

And  deluged  half  the  nation. 

*  Tliis  poem  appeared  originally  with  the  following  advertisement. 

"  The  reader  ia  requested  to  believe  that  the  following  statement  ia 
literally  true ;  because  the  writer  is  well  aware  that  the  circumstances 
under  which  Lillian  was  composed  are  the  only  source  of  its  merits, 
and  the  only  apology  for  its  faults.  At  a  small  party  at  Cambridge, 
Bome  malicious  belles  endeavored  to  confound  their  sonnettcering 
friends,  by  setting  unintelliL'ihle  and  inexplicable  subjects  for  the  exer- 


14  LILLIAN. 

It  was  a  pretty  monster,  too, 

With  a  crimson  head,  and  a  body  blue, 

And  wings  of  a  warm  and  delicate  hue, 

Like  the  glow  of  a  deep  carnation  : 
And  the  terrible  tail  that  lay  behind, 
Reached  out  so  far  as  it  twisted  and  twined. 
That  a  couple  of  dwarfs,  of  wondrous  strength. 
Bore,  when  he  travelled,  the  horrible  length, 

Like  a  Duke's  at  the  coronation. 

His  mouth  had  lost  one  ivory  tooth. 
Or  the  dragon  had  been,  in  very  sooth, 

No  insignificant  charmer ; 
And  that — alas  !  he  had  ruined  it. 
When  on  new-year's  day,  in  a  hungry  fit, 
He  swallowed  a  tough  and  a  terrible  bit — 
Sir  Lob,  in  his  brazen  armor. 
Swift  and  light  were  his  steps  on  the  ground, 
Strong  and  smooth  was  his  hide  around. 
For  the  weapons  which  the  peasants  flung 
Ever  unfelt  or  unheeded  rung. 


cise  of  their  poetical  talents.    Among  many  others,  the  Thesis  was 
given  out  which  is  the  motto  of  Lillian : 

"  A  dragon's  tail  ia  flayed  to  wann 
A  headless  maiden's  iieart," 

and  the  following  was  an  attempt  to  explain  the  riddle.  The  partiality 
with  which  it  had  been  honored  in  manuscript,  and  the  frequent  ap- 
plications wliich  have  been  made  to  the  author  for  copies,  must  be  his 
excuse  for  having  a  few  impressions  struck  off  for  private  circulation 
among  his  friends.  It  was  written,  however,  with  the  sole  view  of 
amusing  the  ladies  in  whose  circle  the  idea  originated ;  and  to  them, 
with  all  due  humility  and  devotion,  it  is  inscribed. 
"Teinity  College,  Cambridge,  October  26,  1822." 


LILLIAN,  15 


Arrow,  and  stone,  and  spear, 
As  snow  o'er  Cynthia's  window  flits, 
Or  raillery  of  twenty  wits 

On  a  fool's  unshrinking  ear. 


'o 


In  many  a  battle  the  lieast  had  been. 

Many  a  blow  he  had  felt  and  given : 
Sir  Digore  came  with  a  menacing  mien. 

But  he  sent  Sir  Digore  straight  to  Heaven ; 
Stiff  and  stoiir  were  the  arms  he  wore, 

Huge  the  sword  he  was  wont  to  clasp  ; 
But  the  sword  was  little,  the  armor  brittle, 

Locked  in  the  coil  of  the  dragon's  grasp. 

He  came  on  Sir  Florice  of  Sesseny  Land, 

Pretty  Sir  Florice  from  over  the  sea, 
And  smashed  him  all  as  he  stepped  on  the  sand, 

Cracking  his  head  like  a  nut  from  the  tree. 
No  one  till  now,  had  found,  I  trow. 

Any  thing  good  in  the  scented  youth, 
Who  had  taken  much  pains  to  be  rid  of  his  brains, 

Before  they  were  sought  by  the  dragon's  tooth. 

He  came  on  the  Sheriff  of  Hereford, 

As  he  sat  him  down  to  his  Sund.ay  dinner; 
And  the  Sheriff  he  spoke  but  this  brief  word  : 

"  St.  Francis,  be  good  to  a  corpulent  sinner !" 
Fat  was  he,  as  a  Sheriff  might  be, 

From  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  tip  of  his  toe ; 
But  the  Sheriff  was  small,  or  nothing  at  all, 

When  put  in  the  jaws  of  the  dragon  foe. 


16  LILLIAN. 

He  came  on  the  Abbot  of  Arnondale, 

As  he  kneeled  him  down  to  his  morning  devotion ; 
But  the  dragon  he  shuddered,  and  turned  his  tail 

About,  "  with  a  short  uneasy  motion." 
Iron  and  steel,  for  an  early  meal, 

He  stomached  with  ease,  or  the  Muse  is  a  liar ; 
But  out  of  all  question,  he  failed  in  digestion, 

If  ever  he  ventured  to  swallow  a  friar ! 

Monstrous  brute ! — his  dread  renown 

Made  whispers  and  terrors  in  country  and  town  ; 

Nothing  was  babbled  by  boor  or  knight, 

But  tales  of  his  civic  appetite. 

At  last,  as  after  dinner  he  lay, 

Hid  from  the  heat  of  the  solar  ray. 

By  boughs  that  had  woven  an  arbor  shady, 

He  chanced  to  fall  in  with  the  Headless  Lady. 

Headless  !  alas !  't  was  a  piteous  gibe  ; 

I'll  drmk  Aganippe,  and  then  describe. 

Her  father  had  been  a  stout  yeoman. 
Fond  of  his  jest  and  fond  of  his  can, 

But  never  over-wise ; 
And  once,  when  his  cups  had  been  many  and  deep, 
He  met  with  a  dragon  fast  asleep, 

'T  was  a  faery  in  disguise  : 
In  a  dragon's  form  she  had  ridden  the  storm. 

The  realm  of  the  sky  invading ; 
Sir  Grahame's  ship  was  stout  and  fast. 
But  the  faery  came  on  the  rushing  blast, 


LILLIAN.  17 

And  shivered  the  sails,  and  shivered  the  mast, 
And  down  went  the  gallant  ship  at  last, 

With  all  the  crew  and  lading. 
And  the  fay  laughed  out  to  see  the  rout, 

,'As  the  last  dim  hope  was  fading  ; 
And  this  she  had  done  in  a  love  of  fun, 

Aud  a  love  of  masquerading. 
She  lay  that  night  in  a  sunny  vale, 
And  the  yeoman  found  her  sleeping ; 
Fiercely  he  smote  her  glittering  tail, 
But  oh !  his  courage  began  to  fail, 
'  When  the  faery  rose  all  weeping. 
"  Thou  hast  lopped,"  she  said,  "  beshrew  thine  hand  ! — 
The  fairest  foot  in  faery  land  ! 

"  Thou  hast  an  infant  in  thine  home  ! 
Never  to  her  shall  reason  come, 

For  weeping  or  for  wail. 
Till  she  shall  ride  with  a  fearless  face 

On  a  living  dragon's  scale. 
And  fondly  clasp  to  her  heart's  embrace 

A  living  dragon's  tail." 
The  faery's  form  from  his  shuddering  sight 
Flowed  away  in  a  stream  of  light. 

Disconsolate  that  youth  departed, 

Disconsolate  and  poor ; 
And  wended,  chill  and  broken-hearted, 

To  his  cottage  on  the  moor  ; 


18  LILLIAN. 

Sadly  and  silently  he  knelt 

His  lonely  hearth  beside ; 
Alas  !  how  desolate  he  felt 

As  he  hid  his  face  and  cried. 
The  cradle  where  the  babe  was  laid 

Stood  in  its  own  dear  nook, 
But  long— how  long!  he  knelt,  and  prayed. 

And  did  not  dare  to  look. 
He  looked  at  last ;  his  joy  was  there, 
And  slumbering  with  that  placid  air 
Which  only  babes  and  angels  wear. 
Over  the  cradle  he  leaned  his  head ; 
The  cheek  was  warm,  and  the  lip  was  red : 
And  he  felt,  he  felt,  as  he  saw  her  lie, 
A  hope — which  was  a  mockery. 
The  babe  unclosed  her  eye's  pale  lid  : — 
Why  doth  he  start  from  the  sight  it  hid  1 
He  had  seen  in  the  dim  and  fitful  ray, 
That  the  light  of  the  soul  hath  gone  away ! 
Sigh  nor  prayer  he  uttered  there, 
In  mute  and  motionless  despair, 
But  he  laid  him  down  beside  his  child, 
And  Lillian  saw  him  die — and  smiled. 
The  mother  ?  she  had  gone  before  ; 
And  in  the  cottage  on  the  moor, 
With  none  to  watch  her  and  caress, 
No  arm  to  clasp,  no  voice  to  bless, 
The  witless  child  grew  up  alone, 
And  made  all  Nature's  book  her  own. 


LILLIAN.  19 

If,  in  the  warm  and  passionate  hour 
When  Reason  sleeps  in  Fancy's  bower, 
If  thou  hast  ever,  ever  felt 
A  dream  of  delicate  beauty  melt 

.'Into  the  heart's  recess, 
Seen  by  the  soul,  and  seen  by  the  mind, 

But  indistinct  its  loveliness. 
Adored,  and  not  defined ; 
A  bright  creation,  a  shadowy  ray. 
Fading  and  flitting  in  mist  away, 
Nothing  to  gaze  on,  and  nothing  to  hear. 
But  something  to  cheat  the  eye  and  ear 
With  a  fond  conception  and  joy  of  both. 
So  that  you  might,  that  hour,  be  loth 
To  change  for  some  one's  sweetest  kiss 
The  visions  of  unenduring  bliss. 
Or  lose  some  one's  sweetest  tone, 
The  murmur  thou  drinkest  all  alone — 
If  such  a  vision  hath  ever  been  thine, 
Thou  hast  a  heart  that  may  look  on  mine ! 

For,  oh!  the  light  of  my  saddened  theme 

Was  like  to  naught  but  a  poet's  dream, 

Or  the  forms  that  come  on  the  twilight's  wing. 

Shaped  by  the  soul's  imagining. 

Beautiful  shade  with  her  tranquil  air. 

And  her  thin  white  arm,  and  her  flowing  hair, 

And  the  light  of  her  eye  so  coldly  obscure. 

And  the  hue  of  her  cheek  so  pale  and  pure  ! 

Reason  and  thought  she  had  never  known, 

Her  heart  was  as  cold  as  a  heart  of  stone ; 


»» 


20  LILLIAN. 

So  you  might  guess  from  her  eyes'  dim  rays, 
And  her  idiot  laugh,  and  her  vacant  gaze. 
She  wandered  about  all  lone  on  the  heather, 
She  and  the  wild  heath-birds  together ; 
For  Lillian  seldom  spoke  or  smiled, 
But  she  sang  as  sweet  as  a  little  child. 
Into  her  song  her  dreams  would  throng. 

Silly,  and  wild,  and  out  of  place ; 
And  yet  that  wild  and  roving  song 

Entranced  the  soul  in  its  desolate  grace. 
And  hence  the  story  had  ever  run, 
That  the  fairest  of  dames  was  a  headless  one. 

The  pilgrim  in  his  foreign  weeds 

Would  falter  in  his  prayer ; 
And  the  monk  would  pause  in  his  half-told  beads 

To  breathe  a  blessing  there  ; 
The  knight  would  loose  his  vizor-clasp, 
And  drop  the  rein  from  his  nerveless  grasp. 
And  pass  his  hand  across  his  brow 
With  a  sudden  sigh,  and  a  whispered  vow, 
And  marvel  Flattery's  tale  was  told, 
From  a  lip  so  young  to  an  ear  so  cold. 
She  had  seen  her  sixteenth  winter  out. 
When  she  met  with  the  beast  I  was  singing  about 
The  dragon,  I  told  you,  had  dined  that  day  ; 
So  he  gazed  upon  her  as  he  lay, 
Earnestly  looking,  and  looking  long. 
With  his  appetite  weak  and  his  wonder  strong. 
Silent  he  lay  in  his  motionless  coil ; 
And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while : — 


LILLIAN.  21 

"  Noiiny  Nonny  !  I  hear  it  float, 
Innocent  bird,  thy  tremulous  note  : 
It  comes  from  thy  home  in  the  eglantine, 
And  I  stay  this  idle  song  of  mine, 
Nonny  Nonny  !  to  listen  to  thine  ! 

"  Nonny  Nonny  !  '  Lillian  sings 
The  sweetest  of  all  living  things  !' 
So  Sir  Launcelot  averred  ; 
But  surely  Sir  Launcelot' never  heard 
Nonny  Nomiy  !  the  natural  bird  !" 

The  dragon  he  lay  in  mute  amaze, 

Till  something  of  kindness  crept  into  his  gaze ; 

He  drew  the  flames  of  his  nostrils  in, 

He  veiled  his  claws  with  their  speckled  skin, 

He  curled  his  fangs  in  a  hideous  smile ; 

And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while : — 

"  Nonny  Nonny  !  who  shall  tell 
Where  the  summer  breezes  dwell  ? 
Lightly  and  brightly  they  breathe  and  blow, 
But  whence  they  come  and  whither  they  go, 
Nonny  Nonny  !  who  shall  know  ? 

"  Nonny  Nonny  !  I  hear  your  tone, 
But  I  feel  ye  cannot  read  mine  own ; 
And  I  lift  my  neck  to  your  fond  embraces, 
But  who  hath  seen  in  your  resting-places, 
Nonny  Nonny  !  your  beautiful  faces  ?" 


22  LILLIAN. 

A  moment !  and  the  dragon  came 

Crouching  down  to  the  peerless  dame, 

With  his  fierce  red  eye  so  fondly  shining, 

And  his  terrible  tail  so  meekly  twining, 

And  the  scales  on  his  huge  limbs  gleaming  o'er, 

Gayer  than  ever  they  gleamed  before. 

She  had  won  his  heart,  while  she  charmed  his  ear, 

And  Lillian  smiled,  and  knew  no  fear. 

And  see,  she  mounts  between  his  wings  ; 

(Never  a  queen  had  a  gaudier  throne,) 
And  faery-like  she  sits  and  smgs, 

Guiding  the  steed  with  a  touch  and  a  tone. 
Aloft,  aloft  in  the  clear  blue  ether, 
The  dame  and  the  dragon  they  soared  together ; 
He  bore  her  away  on  the  breath  of  the  gale — 
The  two  little  dwarfs  held  fast  by  the  tail. 

Fanny  !  a  pretty  group  for  drawing  ; 

My  dragon  like  a  war-horse  pawing, 

My  dwarfs  in  a  fright,  and  my  girl  in  an  attitude, 

Patting  the  beast  in  her  soulless  gratitude. 

There ;  you  may  try  it  if  you  will, 

While  I  drink  my  coffee  and  nib  my  quill. 


CANTO   n. 

The  sun  shone  out  on  hill  and  grove  ; 

It  was  a  glorious  day, 
The  lords  and  ladies  were  making  love, 

And  the  clowns  were  making  hay ; 


1, 


LILLIAN' 


23 


But  the  town  of  Brentford  marked  with  wonder 

A  lightning  in  the  sky,  and  thunder, 

And  thinking  ('t  was  a  thinking  town) 

Some  prodigy  was  coming  down, 

A  mighty  mob  to  Merlin  went, 

To  learn  the  cause  of  this  portent ; 

And  he,  a  wizard  sage,  but  comical, 

Looked  through  his  glasses  astronomical, 

And  puzzled  every  foolish  sconce 

By  this  oracular  response  : 

"  Now  the  slayer  doth  not  slay, 

Weakness  fiings  her  fear  away. 

Power  bears  the  powerless, 

Pity  rides  the  pitiless  ; 

Are  ye  lovers  ?  are  ye  brave  ? 

Hear  ye  this,  and  seek,  and  save  ! 
He  that  would  wed  the  loveliest  maid. 

Must  don  the  stoutest  mail, 
For  the  rider  shall  never  be  sound  in  the  head^ 

Till  the  ridden  be  maimed  in  the  tail. 
Hey  diddle  diddle  !  the  cat  and  the  fiddle  I 
None  but  the  lover  can  read  me  my  riddle  /" 

How  kind  art  thou,  and  oh  !  how  mighty, 
Cupid  !  thou  son  of  Aphrodite  ! 
By  thy  sole  aid  in  old  romance, 
Heroes  and  heroines  sing  and  dance ; 
Of  cane  and  rod  there's  little  need ; 
They  never  learn  to  write  or  road  ; 


24  LILLIAN. 

Yet  ofteij,  by  thy  sudden  light, 

Enamored  dames  contrive  to  write; 

And  often,  in  the  hour  of  need, 

Enamored  youths  contrive  to  read. 

(I  make  a  small  digression  here : 

I  merely  mean  to  make  it  clear, 

That  if  Sir  Eglamour  had  wit 

To  read  and  construe,  bit  by  bit. 

All  that  the  wizard  had  expressed, 

And  start  conjectures  on  the  rest, 

Cupid  had  sharpened  his  discerning. 

The  little  god  of  love  and  learning.) 

He  revolved  in  his  bed  what  Merlin  had  said, 

Though  Merlin  had  labored  to  scatter  a  veil  on't ; 
And  found  out  the  sense  of  the  tail  and  the  head 

Though  none  of  his   neighbors    could  make  head  or 
tail  on't. 
Sir  Eglamour  was  one  o'  the  best 

Of  Arthur's  table  round  ; 
Pie  never  set  his  spear  in  rest. 

But  a  dozen  went  to  the  ground. 
Clear  and  warm  as  the  lightning  flame, 
His  valor  from  his  father  came, 

His  cheek  was  like  his  mother's  ; 
And  his  hazel  eye  more  clearly  shone 
Than  any  I  ever  have  looked  upon. 

Save  Fanny's  and  two  others ! 
With  his  spur  so  bright,  and  his  rein  so  light. 

And  his  steed  so  swift  and  ready  ; 
And  his  skilful  sword,  to  wound  or  ward, 

And  his  spear  so  sure  and  steady ; 


LILLIAN. 


25 


He  bore  him  like  a  British  knight 

From  London  to  Penzance  ; 
Avenged  all  weeping  women's  slight, 

And  made  all  giants  dance. 
And  he  had  travelled  far  from  home, 

Had  worn  a  mask  at  Venice, 
Had  kissed  the  Bishop's  toe  at  Rome, 

And  beat  the  French  at  tennis  : 
Hence  he  had  many  a  courtly  play, 

And  jeerings  and  jibes  in  plenty. 
And  he  wrote  more  rhymes  in  a  single  day 

•Than  Byron  or  Bowles  in  twenty. 

He  clasped  to  his  side  his  sword  of  pride. 
His  sword,  whose  native  polish  vied 

With  many  a  gory  stain ; 
Keen  and  bright  as  a  meteor-light ; 
But  not  so  keen  and  not  so  bright. 

As  Moultrie's*  jesting  vein. 
And  his  shield  he  bound  his  arm  around. 
His  shield,  whose  dark  and  dingy  round, 

Naught  human  could  get  through ; 
Heavy  and  thick  as  a  wall  of  brick, 
But  not  so  heavy  and  not  so  thick 

As  Roberts's  Review.f 

*  Eev.  John  Moultrie,  who,  in  1823,  (when  many  manuscript  co- 
pies of  "  Lillian"  were  in  circulation,)  wrote  some  beautiful  and  pa- 
thetic lyrics,  some  of  which  appeared  in  Knight's  Quarterly  Magazine. 

t  "  My  Grandmothers  Review— the  British."— Z>07i  Juan.  Roberts 
was  the  editor. —  V'kU  Byron  s  celebrated  Letter  to  li'nn. 

2 


26  LILLIAN. 

With  a  smile  and  a  jest  he  set  out  on  the  quest, 

Clad  in  his  stoutest  mail, 
With  his  helm  of  the  best,  and  his  spear  in  the  rest, 

To  flay  the  dragon's  tail. 

The  warrior  travelled  wearily. 

Many  a  league  and  many  a  mile; 
And  the  dragon  sailed  in  the  clear  blue  sky  ; 

And  the  song  of  the  lady  was  sweet  the  while : — 

*'  My  steed  and  I,  my  steed  and  I, 
On  in  the  path  of  the  winds  we  fly. 
And  I  chase  the  planets  that  wander  at  even, 
And  bathe  my  hair  in  the  dews  of  heaven ! 
Beautiful  stars,  so  thin  and  bright, 
Exquisite  visions  of  vapor  and  light, 
I  love  ye  all  with  a  sister's  love, 
And  I  rove  with  ye  wherever  ye  rove, 
And  I  drink  your  changeless,  endless  song, 
The  music  ye  make  as  ye  wander  along ! 
Oh !  let  me  be,  as  one  of  ye. 
Floating  for  aye  on  your  liquid  sea ; 
And  I'll  feast  with  you  on  the  purest  rain, 
To  cool  mv  weak  and  wildered  brain. 
And  I'll  give  you  the  loveliest  lock  of  my  hair 
For  a  little  spot  in  your  realm  of  air  !" 

The  dragon  came  down  when  the  morn  shone  bright, 

And  slept  in  the  beam  of  the  sun ; 
Fatigued,  no  doubt,  with  his  airy  flight, 

As  I  with  my  jingling  one. 


LILLIAN.  27 

With  such  a  monstrous  adversary 
Sir  Eglamour  was  far  too  weary 

To  think  of  bandving  knocks  : 
He  came  on  his  foe  as  still  as  death, 
Walking  on  tiptoe,  and  holding  his  breath, 
And  instead  of  drawing  his  sword  from  his  sheath, 

He  drew  a  pepper-box ! 
The  pepper  was  as  hot  as  flame. 

The  box  of  a  wondrous  size; 
He  gazed  one  moment  on  the  dame, 
Then,  with  a  sure  and  steady  aim 
Full  in  the  dragon's  truculent  phiz 
He  flung  the  scorching  powder — whiz! 

And  darkened  both  his  eyes ! 

Have  you  not  seen  a  little  kite 
Rushing  away  on  its  paper  wing, 
To  mix  with  the  wild  wind's  quarrelling  ? 

Up  it  soars  with  an  arrowy  flight. 
Till,  weak  and  unsteady, 
Torn  by  the  eddy. 

It  dashes  to  earth  from  its  hideous  height? 

Such  was  the  rise  of  the  beast  in  his  pain, 

Such  was  his  falling  to  earth  again ; 

Upward  he  shot,  but  he  saw  not  his  path, 

Blinded  with  pepper,  and  blinded  with  wrath  ; 

One  struggle — one  vain  one — of  pain  and  emotion! 

And  he  shot  back  again,  like  "  a  bird  of  the  ocean !" 

Long  he  lay  in  a  trance  that  day, 


28  LILLIAN. 

And  alas !  he  did  not  wake  before 
The  cruel  knight  with  skill  and  might, 
Had  lopped  and  flayed  the  tail  he  wore. 

Twelve  hours  by  the  chime  he  lay  in  his  slime, 

More  utterly  blind,  I  trow, 
Than  a  Polypheme  in  the  olden  time. 

Or  a  politician  now. 
He  sped,  as  soon  as  he  could  see. 
To  the  Paynim  bowers  of  Rosalie ; 
For  there  the  dragon  had  hope  to  cure, 
By  the  tinkling  rivulets,  ever  pure, 
By  the  glowing  sun,  and  fragrant  gale. 
His  wounded  honor  and  wounded  tail ! 
He  hied  him  away  to  the  perfumed  spot : 
The  little  dwarfs  clung — where  the  tail  was  not! 
The  damsel  gazed  on  that  young  knight, 
With  something  of  terror,  but  more  of  delight; 
Much  she  admired  the  gauntlets  he  wore. 
Much  the  device  that  his  buckler  bore. 
Much  the  feathers  that  danced  on  his  crest. 
But  most  the  baldrick  that  shone  on  his  breast. 
She  thought  the  dragon's  pilfered  scale 
Was  fairer  far  than  the  warrior's  mail, 
And  she  lifted  it  up  with  her  weak  white  arm, 
Unconscious  of  its  hidden  charm. 
And  round  her  throbbing  bosom  tied. 
In  mimicry  of  warlike  pride. 

Gone  is  the  spell  that  bound  her ! 
The  talisman  hath  touched  her  heart. 
And  she  leaps  with  a  fearful  and  fxwn-like  start 


LILLIAN.  ^      •  29 

As  the  shades  of  glamoiy  depart — 
Strange  thoughts  are  glimmering  round  her  ; 
Deeper  and  deeper  her  check  is  glowing, 
Quicker  and  quicker  her  breath  is  flowing, 
And  her  eye  gleams  out  from  its  long  dark  lashes, 
Fast  and  full,  unnatural  flashes  ; 

For  hurriedly  and  wild 
Doth  Reason  pour  her  hidden  treasures, 
Of  human  griefs,  and  human  pleasures, 

Upon  her  new-found  child. 
And  "  oh  !"  she  saith,  "  my  spirit  doth  seem 
To  have  risen  to-day  from  a  pleasant  dream  ; 
A  long,  long  dream — but  I  feel  it  breaking ! 
Painfully  sweet  is  the  throb  of  waking  ;" 
And  then  she  laughed,  and  wept  again  : 
While,  gazing  on  her  heart's  first  rain. 
Bound  in  its  turn  by  a  magic  chain. 

The  silent  youth  stood  there  : 
Never  had  either  been  so  blest ; — 
You  that  are  young  may  picture  the  rest, 

You  that  are  young  and  fair. 
Never  before,  on  this  warm  land, 
Came  Love  and  Reason  hand  in  hand. 

When  you  are  blest,  in  childhood's  years 
With  the  brightest  hopes  and  the  lightest  fears, 
Have  you  not  wandered  in  your  dream, 

Where  a  greener  glow  was  on  the  ground. 

And  a  clearer  breath  in  the  air  around. 
And  a  purer  life  in  the  gay  sunbeam. 
And  a  tremulous  murmur  in  every  tree, 
And  a  motionless  sleep  on  the  quiet  sea  ? 


30  LILLIAN. 

And  have  you  not  lingered,  lingered  still, 
All  unfettered  in  thought  and  will, 

A  fair  and  cherished  boy  ; 
Until  you  felt  it  pain  to  part 
From  the  wild  creations  of  your  art, 
Until  your  young  and  innocent  heart 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  joy  ? 
And  then,  oh  then,  hath  your  waking  eye 
Opened  in  all  its  ecstacy, 
And  seen  your  mother  leaning  o'er  you. 
The  loved  and  loving  one  that  bore  you, 
Giving  her  own,  her  fond  caress. 
And  looking  her  eloquent  tenderness? 
Was  it  not  heaven  to  fly  from  the  scene 
Where  the  heart  in  the  vision  of  night  had  been, 
And  drink,  in  one  o'erflowing  kiss, 
Your  deep  reality  of  bliss  1 
Such  was  Lillian's  passionate  madness. 
Such  was  the  calm  of  her  waking  gladness. 

Enough !  my  tale  is  all  too  long  : 
Fair  children,  if  the  trifling  song. 

That  flows  for  you  to-night. 
Hath  stolen  from  you  one  gay  laugh, 
Or  given  your  quiet  hearts  to  quaff 

One  cup  of  young  delight. 
Pay  ye  the  rhymer  for  his  toils 
In  the  coinage  of  your  golden  smiles. 
And  treasure  up  his  idle  verse, 
With  the  stories  ye  loved  from  the  lips  of  your  nurse. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  BELMONT. 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    RHINE. 

Where  foams  and  flows  the  glorious  Rhine, 

Many  a  ruin  wan  and  gray 
O'erlooks  the  corn-field  and  the  vine, 

Majestic  in  its  dark  decay. 
Among  their  dim  clouds,  long  ago, 
They  mocked  the  battles  that  raged  below. 
And  greeted  the  guests  in  arms  that  came, 
With  hissing  arrow,  and  scalding  flame  : 
But  there  is  not  one  of  the  homes  of  pride 
That  frown  on  the  breast  of  the  peaceful  tide, 
Whose  leafy  walls  more  proudly  tower 
Than  these,  the  walls  of  Belmont  Tower. 

Where  foams  and  flows  the  glorious  Rhine, 

Many  a  fierce  and  fiery  lord 
Did  carve  the  meat,  and  pour  the  wine. 

For  all  that  revelled  a,t  his  board. 
Father  and  son,  they  were  all  alike. 
Firm  to  endure,  and  fast  to  strike; 


32  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

Little  they  loved  but  a  Frau  or  a  feast, 
Nothing  they  feared  but  a  prayer  or  a  priest ; 
But  there  was  not  one  in  all  the  land 
More  trusty  of  heart,  or  more  stout  of  hand. 
More  valiant  in  field,  or  more  courteous  in  bower, 
Than  Otto,  the  Lord  of  Belmont  Tower. 

Are  you  rich,  single,  and  '  your  Grace'? 

I  pity  your  unhappy  case  ; 

Before  you  leave  your  travelling  carriage, 

The  women  have  arranged  your  marriage  ; 

Where'er  your  weary  wit  may  lead  you. 

They  pet  you,  praise  you,  fret  you,  feed  you ; 

Consult  your  taste  in  wreaths  and  laces. 

And  make  you  make  their  books  at  Races, 

Your  little  pony.  Tarn  O'Shanter, 

Is  found  to  have  the  sweetest  canter ; 

Your  curricle  is  quite  reviving. 

And  Jane  's  so  bold  when  you  are  driving ! 

Some  recollect  your  father's  habits, 

And  know  the  warren,  and  the  rabbits ! 

The  place  is  really  princely — only 

They  're  sure  you  '11  find  it  vastly  lonely. 

You  go  to  Cheltenham,  for  the  waters. 

And  meet  the  Countess  and  her  daughters  ; 

You  take  a  cottage  at  Geneva — 

Lo  !  Lady  Anne  and  Lady  Eva. 

In  horror  of  another  session, 

You  just  surrender  at  discretion, 

And  live  to  curse  the  fraxids  of  mothers, 

And  envy  all  your  younger  brothers. 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  33 

Count  Otto  bowed,  Count  Otto  smiled, 

When  My  Lady  praised  her  darling  child  ; 

Count  Otto  smiled,  Count  Otto  bowed, 

When  the  child  those  praises  disavowed ; 

As  a  knight  should  gaze  Count  Otto  gazed. 

Where  Bertha  in  all  her  beauty  blazed ; 

As  a  knight  should  hear  Count  Otto  heard, 

When  Liba  sang  like  a  forest  bird — 

But  he  thought,  I  trow,  about  as  long 

Of  Bertha's  beauty  and  Liba's  song. 

As  the  sun  may  think  of  the  clouds  that  play 

O'er  his  radiant  path  on  a  summer  day. 

Many  a  maid  had  dreams  of  state. 

As  the  Count  rode  up  to  her  father's  gate ; 

Many  a  maid  shed  tears  of  pain, 

As  the  count  rode  back  to  his  Tower  again ; 

But  little  he  cared,  as  it  should  seem. 

For  the  sad,  sad  tear,  or  the  fond,  fond  dream — 

Alone  he  lived — alone,  and  free 

As  the  owl  that  dwells  in  the  hollow  tree : 

And  the  Baroness  said,  and  the  Baron  swore, 

There  never  was  knight  so  shy  before  ! 

It  was  almost  the  first  of  May  : 
The  sun  all  smiles  had  passed  away; 

The  moon  was  beautifully  bright; 
Earth,  heaven,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 
Looked  up  and  down  with  happy  faces ; 

In  short,  it  was  a  charming  night. 

And  all  alone,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

The  young  Count  clambered  down  the  I'ock, 

2* 


84  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

Unfurled  the  sail,  unchained  the  oar, 

And  pushed  the  shallop  from  the  shore. 

The  holiness  that  sweet  time  flings 

Upon  all  human  thoughts  and  things. 

When  Sorrow  checks  her  idle  sighs, 

And  care  shuts  fast  her  wearied  eyes ; 

The  splendor  of  the  hues  that  played 

Fantastical  o'er  hill  and  glade. 

As  verdant  slope  and  barren  cliff 

Seemed  darting  by  the  tiny  skiff; 

The  flowers,  whose  faint  tips,  here  and  there. 

Breathed  out  such  fragrance,  you  might  swear 

That  every  soundless' gale  that  fanned 

The  tide  came  fresh  from  fairy  land  ; 

The  music  of  the  mountain  rill, 

Leaping  in  glee  from  hill  to  hill, 

To  which  some  wild  bird,  now  and  then. 

Made  answer  from  her  darksome  glen — 

All  this  to  him  had  rarer  pleasure 

Than  jester's  wit  or  minstrel's  measure  ; 

And,  if  you  ever  loved  romancing, 

Or  felt  extremely  tired  of  dancing, 

You  will  not  wonder  that  Count  Otto 

Left  Lady  Hildegonde's  ridotto. 

What  melody  glides  o'er  the  star-lit  stream  ? 

"Lurley!  Lurley  !" 
Angels  of  grace  !  does  the  young  Count  dream  ? 

"  Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 
Or  is  the  scene  indeed  so  fair 
That  a  nymph  of  the  sea  or  a  nymph  of  the  air 


« 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  35 

Has  left  the  home  of  her  own  delight, 
To  sing  to  our  roses  or  rocks  to-night? 

"  Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 
Words  there  are  none ;  but  the  waves  prolong 
The  notes  of  that  mysterious  song : 
He  listens,  and  listens,  and  all  around 
Eipple  the  echoes  of  that  sweet  sound — 

"  Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 
No  form  appears  on  the  river  side ; 
No  boat  is  borne  on  the  wandering  tide  ; 
And  the  tones  ring  on,  with  naught  to  show 
Or  whence  they  come  or  whither  they  go — 

"  Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 
As  fades  one  murmur  on  the  ear, 
There  comes  another,  just  as  clear  ; 
And  the  present  is  like  to  the  parted  strain 
As  link  to  link  of  a  golden  chain  : 

Lurley  !  Lurley  !" 
Whether  the  voice  be  sad  or  gay, 
'T  were  very  hard  for  the  Count  to  say  ; 
But  pale  are  his  cheeks  and  pained  his  brow, 
And  the  boat  drifts  on  he  recks  not  how  ; 
His  pulse  is  quick  and  his  heart  is  wild. 
And  he  weeps,  he  weeps,  like  a  little  child. 

Oh  mighty  music !  they  who  know 

The  witchery  of  thy  wondrous  bow, 

Forget,  when  thy  strange  spells  have  bound  them, 

The  visible  world  that  lies  around  them. 

When  Lady  Mary  sings  Rosini, 

Or  stares  at  spectral  Paganini, 


36  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

To  Lady  Mary  does  it  matter 

Who  laugh,  who  love,  who  frown,  who  flatter  1 

Oh  no  ;  she  cannot  heed  or  hear 

Reason  or  rhyme  from  prince  or  peer : 

In  vain  for  her  Sir  Charles  denounces 

The  horror  of  the  last  new  flounces ; 

In  vain  the  Doctor  does  his  duty 

By  doubting  of  her  rival's  beauty  ; 

And  if  my  Lord,  as  usual,  raves 

About  the  sugar  or  the  slaves, 

Predicts  the  nation's  future  glories, 

And  chants  the  requiem  of  the  Tories, 

Good  man !  she  minds  him  just  as  much 

As  Marshal  Gerard  minds  the  Dutch. 

Hid  was  the  bright  heaven's  loveliness 

Beneath  a  sudden  cloud, 
As  a  bride  might  doff"  her  bridal  dress 

To  don  her  funeral  shroud  ; 
And  over  flood,  and  over  fell. 

With  a  wild  and  wicked  shout, 
From  the  secret  cell,  where  in  chains  they  dwell, 

The  joyous  winds  rushed  out ; 
And  the  dark  hills  through,  the  thunder  flew, 

And  down  the  fierce  hail  came ; 
And  from  peak  to  peak  the  lightning  threw 

Its  shafts  of  liquid  flame. 
The  boat  went  down  ;  without  delay, 
The  luckless  boatman  swooned  away  ; 
And  when,  as  a  clear  Spring  morning  rose 
He  woke  in  wonder  from  repose, 


I 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  37 

The  river  was  calm  as  the  river  could  be, 
Aiid  the  thrush  was  awake  on  the  gladsome  tree, 
And  there  he  lay,  in  a  sunny  cave. 
On  the  margin  of  the  tranquil  wave, 
Half  deaf  with  that  infernal  din, 
And  wet,  poor  fellow,  to  the  skin. 
He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to  the  right — 
Why  hastened  he  not,  the  noble  knight, 
To  dry  his  aged  nurse's  tears. 
To  calm  the  hoary  butler's  fears. 
To  listen  to  the  prudent  speeches 
''   Of  half  a  dozen  loquacious  leeches — 
To  swallow  cordials  circumspectly, 
And  change  his  dripping  cloak  directly  ? 

"With  foot  outstretched,  with  hand  upraised. 

In  vast  surprise  he  gazed,  and  gazed  : 

Within  a  deep  and  damp  recess 

A  maiden  lay  in  her  loveliness  ! 

Lived  she  1 — in  sooth  't  were  hard  to  tell, 

Sleep  counterfeited  Death  so  well. 

A  shelf  of  the  rock  was  all  her  bed ; 

A  ceiling  of  crystal  was  o'er  her  head  : 

Silken  robe,  nor  satin  vest. 

Shrouded  her  form  in  its  silent  rest ; 

Only  her  long,  long  golden  hair 

About  her  lay  like  a  thin  robe  there  ; 

Up  to  her  couch  the  young  knight  crept : 

How  very  sound  the  maiden  slept ! 

Fearful  and  faint  the  young  knight  sighed  : 

The  echoes  of  the  cave  replied. 


tV.mVY2 


38  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

He  leaned  to  look  upon  her  face  ; 

He  clasped  her  hand  in  wild  embrace  ; 

Never  was  form  of  such  fine  mould — 

But  the  hands  and  the  face  were  as  white  and  cold 

As  they  of  the  Parian  stone  were  made, 

To  which,  in  great  Minerva's  shade. 

The  Athenian  sculptor's  toilsome  knife 

Gave  all  of  loveliness  but  life. 

On  her  fair  neck  there  seemed  no  stain, 

Where  the  pure  blood  coursed  thro'  the  delicate  vein  ; 

And  her  breath,  if  breath  indeed  it  were, 

Flowed  in  a  current  so  soft  and  rare, 

It  would  scarcely  have  stirred  the  young  moth's  wing 

On  the  path  of  his  noonday  wandering  ; 

Never  on  earth  a  creature  trod, 

Half  so  lovely,  or  half  so  odd. 

Count  Otto  stares  till  his  eyelids  ache. 

And  wonders  when  she  '11  please  to  wake  ; 

While  Fancy  whispers  strange  suggestions. 

And  Wonder  prompts  a  score  of  questions. 

Is  she  a  nymph  of  another  sphere  1 

Whence  came  she  hither  1 — what  doth  she  here  ? 

Or  if  the  morning  of  her  birth 

Be  registered  on  this  our  earth, 

Why  hath  she  fled  from  her  father's  halls  ? 

And  where  hath  she  left  her  cloaks  and  shawls  ? 

There  was  no  time  for  Reason's  lectures. 

There  was  no  time  for  Wit's  conjectures  ; 

He  threw  his  arm,  with  timid  haste. 

Around  the  maiden's  slender  waist. 


I 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  39 

And  raised  hev  up  in  a  modest  way, 
From  the  cold,  bare  rock  on  which  she  lay. 
He  was  but  a  mile  from  his  castle  gate, 
And  the  lady  was  scarcely  five  stone  weight ; 
He  stopped,  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 
With  his  beauteous  burden,  at  Belmont  Tower. 

Gay,  I  ween,  was  the  chamber  dressed, 
As  the  Count  gave  order  for  his  guest ; 
But  scarcely  on  the  couch  'tis  said. 
That  gentle  guest  was  fairly  laid. 
When  she  opened  at  once  her  great  blue  eyes, 
And,  after  a  glance  of  brief  surprise. 
Ere  she  had  spoken,  and  ere  she  had  heard 
Of  wisdom  or  wit  a  single  word. 
She  laughed  so  long,  and  laughed  so  loud, 
That  Dame  Ulrica  often  vowed 
,  A  dirge  is  a  merrier  thing  by  half 
Than  such  a  senseless,  soulless  laugh. 
Around  the  tower  the  elfin  crew 
Seemed  shouting  in  mirthful  concert  too ; 
And  echoed  roof,  and  trembled  rafter, 
With  that  unsentimental  laughter. 

As  soon  as  that  droll  tumult  passed, 
The  maiden's  tongue,  unchained  at  last. 
Asserted  all  its  female  right. 
And  talked  and  talked  with  all  its  might. 
Oh,  how  her  low  and  liquid  voice 
Made  the  rapt  hearer's  soul  rejoice ! 


40  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

'T  was  full  of  those  clear  tones  that  start 

From  innocent  childhood's  happy  heart, 

Ere  passion  and  sin  disturb  the  well 

In  which  their  mirth  and  rtiusic  dwell. 

But  man  nor  master  could  make  out 

What  the  eloquent  maiden  talked  about ; 

The  things  she  uttered  like  did  seem 

To  the  babbling  waves  of  a  limpid  stream ; 

For  the  words  of  her  speech,  if  words  they  might  be, 

Were  the  words  of  a  speech  of  a  far  countrie ; 

And  when  she  had  said  them  o'er  and  o'er, 

Count  Otto  understood  no  more 

Than  you  or  I  of  the  slang  that  falls 

From  dukes  and  dupes  at  Tattersall's, 

Of  Hebrew  from  a  bearded  Jew, 

Or  metaphysics  from  a  Blue. 

Count  Otto  swore,  (Count  Otto's  reading 

Might  well  have  taught  him  better  breeding,) 

That  whether  the  maiden  should  fume  or  fret. 

The  maiden  should  not  leave  him  yet ; 

And  so  he  took  prodigious  pains 

To  make  her  happy  in  her  chains  ; 

From  Paris  came  a  pair  of  cooks. 

From  Gottingen  a  load  of  books ; 

From  Venice  stores  of  gorgeous  suits, 

From  Florence  minstrels  and  their  lutes ; 

The  youth  himself  had  special  pride 

In  breaking  horses  for  his  bride ; 

And  his  old  tutor,  Doctor  Hermann, 

Was  brought  from  Bonn  to  teach  her  German. 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  41 

And  there  in  her  beauty  and  her  grace 

The  wayward  maiden  grew  ; 
And  every  day,  of  her  form  or  face 

Some  charm  seemed  fresh  and  new ; 
Over  her  cold  and  colorless  cheek 

The  blush  of  the  rose  was  shed, 
And  her  quickened  pulse  began  to  speak 

Of  human  hope  and  dread  ! 
And  soon  she  grasped  the  learned  lore 

The  old  gray  pedant  taught, 
And  turned  from  the  volume  to  explore 

The  hidden  mine  of  thought. 
Alas  !  her  bliss  was  not  the  same 

As  it  was  in  other  years, 
!For  with  new  knowledge  sorrow  came. 

And  with  new  passion  tears. 
Oft,  till  the  Count  came  up  from  wine, 

She  would  sit  by  the  lattice  high, 
And  watch  the  windings  of  the  Ehine 

With  a  very  wistful  eye ; 
And  oft  on  some  rude  cliff  she  stood, 

Her  light  harp  in  her  hand, 
And  still  as  she  looked  on  the  gurgling  flood, 

She  sang  of  her  native  land. 
And  when  Count  Otto  pleaded  well 

For  priest,  and  ring,  and  vow. 
She  heard  the  knight  that  fond  tale  tell, 

With  a  pale  and  pensive  brow : 
"  Henceforth  my  spirit  may  not  sleep, 

As  ever  till  now  it  slept; 


42  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

Henceforth  mine  eyes  have  learned  to  weep, 

As  never  till  now  they  wept. 
Twelve  months,  dear  Otto,  let  me  grieve 

For  my  own,  my  childhood's  home, 
Where  the  sun  at  noon,  or  the  frost  at  eve, 

Did  never  dare  to  come ; 
And  when  the  Spring  its  smiles  recalls, 

Thy  maiden  will  resign 
The  holy  hush  of  her  father's  halls 

For  the  stormy  joys  of  thine." 
But  where  that  father's  halls  ? — vain,  vain  ! 

She  threw  her  sad  eyes  down ; 
And  if  you  dared  to  ask  again, 

She  answered  with  a  frowoi. 

Some  people  have  a  knack,  we  know, 
Of  saying  things  mal-a-propos. 
And  making  all  the  world  reflect 
On  what  it  hates  to  recollect : 
They  talk  to  misers  of  their  heir. 
To  women  of  the  times  that  were. 
To  ruined  gamblers  of  the  box, 
To  thin  defaulters  of  the  stocks. 
To  cowards  of  their  neighbors'  duels. 
To  Hayne  of  Lady  H.'s  jewels. 
To  poets  of  the  wrong  Review, 
And  to  the  French  of  Waterloo. 
The  Count  was  not  of  these ;  he  never 
Was  half  so  clumsy,  half  so  clever ; 
And  when  he  found  the  girl  had  rather 
Say  nothing  more  about  her  father, 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  43 

He  changed  the  subject — told  a  fable — 
Believed  that  dinner  was  on  the  table — 
Or  whispered,  with  an  air  of  sorrow, 
That  it  would  surely  rain  to-morrow. 

The  Winter  storms  went  darkly  by, 
And,  from  a  blue  and  cloudless  sky, 
Again  the  sun  looked  cheerfully 

Upon  the  rolling  Rhine  ; 
And  Spring  brought  back  to  the  budding  flowers 
Its  genial  light  and  freshening  showers, 
'And  music  to  the  shady  bowers, 

And  verdure  to  the  vine. 

And  now  it  was  the  First  of  May  ; 
For  twenty  miles  round  all  is  gay  ; 
Cottage  and  castle  keep  holiday ; 

For  how  should  sorrow  lower 
On  brow  of  rustic  or  of  knight, 
When  heaven  itself  looks  all  so  bright, 
Where  Otto's  wedding  feast  is  dight 

In  the  hall  of  Belmont  Tower  1 
Stately  matron  and  warrior  tall 
Come  to  the  joyous  festival ; 
Good  Count  Otto  welcomes  all, 

As  through  the  gate  they  thi'ong ; 
He  fdls  to  the  brim  the  wassail  cup  ; 
In  the  bright  wine  Pleasure  sparkles  up, 

And  draughts  and  tales  grow  long  ; 
But  grizly  knights  are  still  and  mute. 
And  dames  set  down  the  untasted  fruit, 


44  THE      BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

When  the  bride  takes  up  her  golden  lute, 
And  sings  her  solemn  song  : 

"  A  voice  ye  hear  not,  in  mine  ear  is  crying ; 

What  does  the  sad  voice  say  ? 
'  Dost  thou  not  heed  thy  weary  father's  sighing  1 
Eeturn,  return  to-day  ! 

Twelve  moons  have  faded  now : 
My  daughter,  where  art  thou?' 

"  Peace  !  in  the  silent  evening  we  will  meet  thee, 
Gray  ruler  of  the  tide  ! 
Must  not  the  lover  with  the  loved  one  greet  thee  1 
The  bridegroom  with  his  bride  ? 
Deck  the  dim  couch  aright, 
The  bridal  couch  to-night." 


'to' 


The  nurses  to  the  children  say 

That,  as  the  maiden  sang  that  day, 

The  Rhine  to  the  heights  of  the  beetling  tower 

Sent  up  a  cry  of  fiercer  powei. 

And  again  the  maiden's  cheek  was  grown 

As  white  as  ever  was  marble  stone. 

And  the  bridesmaid  her  hand  could  hardlv  hold, 

Its  fingers  were  so  icy  cold. 

Rose  Count  Otto  from  the  feast. 

As  entered  the  hall  the  hoary  priest. 

A  stalwart  warrior,  well  I  ween, 

That  hoary  priest  in  his  youth  had  been  ; 

But  the  might  of  his  manhood  he  had  given 

To  peace  and  prayer,  the  Church  and  Heaven. 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  45 

For  he  had  travelled  o'er  land  and  wave ; 

He  had  kneeled  on  many  a  martyi-'s  grave ; 

He  had  prayed  in  the  meek  St.  Jerome's  cell, 

And  had  tasted  St.  Anthony's  blessed  well. 

And  reliques  round  his  neck  had  he, 

Each  worth  a  haughty  kingdom's  fee — 

Scrapings  of  bones,  and  points  of  spears, 

And  vials  of  authentic  tears — 

From  a  prophet's  coffin  a  hallowed  nail, 

And  a  precious  shred  of  our  Lady's  veil ; 

And  therefore  at  his  awful  tread. 

The  powers  of  darkness  shrank  with  dread ; 

And  Satan  felt  that  no  disguise 

Could  hide  him  from  those  chastened  eyes. 

He  looked  on  the  bridegroom,  he  looked  on  the  bride. 

The  young  Count  smiled,  but  the  old  priest  sighed. 

"  Fields  with  the  father  I  have  won  ; 
I  am  come  in  my  cowl  to  bless  the  son ; 
Count  Otto,  ere  thou  bend  thy  knee. 
What  shall  the  hire  of  my  service  be?" 

"  Greedy  hawk  must  gorge  his  prey, 
Pious  priest  must  win  his  pay  ; 
Name  the  guerdon, 'and  so  to  the  task  : 
Thine  it  is,  ere  thy  lips  can  ask." 

He  frowned  as  he  answered — "  Gold  or  gem, 
Count  Otto,  little  I  reck  of  them ; 
But  your  bride  has  skill  of  the  lute,  they  say  : 
Let  her  sing  me  the  song  I  shall  name  to-day." 


46  THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT. 

Loud  laughed  the  Count :   "  And  if  she  refuse 
The  ditty,  Sir  Priest,  thy  whim  shall  choose, 
Row  back  to  the  house  of  old  St.  Goar ; 
I  never  bid  priest  to  a  bridal  more." 

Beside  the  maiden  he  took  his  stand, 
He  gave  the  lute  to  her  trembling  hand  ; 
She  gazed  around  with  a  troubled  eye  ; 
The  guests  all  shuddered,  and  knew  not  why  ; 
It  seemed  to  them  as  if  a  gloom 
Had  shrouded  all  the  banquet  room. 
Though  over  its  boards,  and  over  its  beams, 
Sunlight  was  glowing  in  merry  streams. 

The  stern  priest  throws  an  angiy  glance 
On  that  pale  creature's  countenance  ; 
Unconsciously  her  white  hand  flings 
Its  soft  touch  o'er  the  answering  strings  ; 
The  good  man  starts  with  a  sudden  thrill, 
And  half  relents  from  his  purposed  will ; 
But  he  signs  the  cross  on  his  aching  brow 
And  arms  his  soul  for  its  warfare  now. 
"  Mortal  maid  or  goblin  fairy, 
Sing  me,  I  pray  thee,  an  Ave-Mary !" 

Suddenly  the  maiden  bent 
O'er  the  gorgeous  instrument ; 
But  of  song,  the  listeners  heard 
Only  one  wild,  mournful  word — 
"Lurley!  Lurley !" 


THE     BRIDAL     OF     BELMONT.  47 

And  when  the  sound,  in  the  liquid  air, 

Of  that  brief  hymn  had  faded, 
Nothing  was  left  of  the  nymph  who  there 

For  a  year  had  masqueraded  ; 
But  the  harp  in  the  midst  of  the  wide  hall  set, 

Where  her  last  strange  word  was  spoken ! 
The  golden  frame  with  tears  was  wet, 

And  all  the  strings  were  broken ! 


THE  EED  FISHERMAN. 


Oh  flesh,  flesh,  how  art  thou  fishified ! 

Romeo  and  Juliet. 


The  abbot  arose,  and  closed  his  book, 

And  donned  his  sandal  shoon, 
And  wandered  forth,  alone,  to  look 

Upon  the  summer  moon  : 
A  starlight  sky  was  o'er  his  head, 

A  quiet  breeze  around  ; 
And  the  flowers  a  thrilling'  fragrance  shed, 

And  the  waves  a  soothing  sound  : 
It  was  not  an  hour,  nor  a  scene,  for  aught 

But  love  and  calm  delight ; 
Yet  the  holy  man  had  a  cloud  of  thought 
K    \)        On  his  wrinkled  brow  that  night. 


\ 


He  gazed  on  the  river  that  gurgled  by. 

But  he  thought  not  of  the  reeds  : 
He  clasped  his  gilded  rosary, 

But  he  did  not  tell  the  beads ; 
If  he  looked  to  the  heaven,  'twas  not  to  invoke 

The  Spirit  that  dwelleth  there  ; 
If  he  opened  his  lips,  the  words  they  spoke 

Had  never  the  tone  of  prayer. 


THEREDFISIIEKMAN.  49 

A  pious  priest  might  the  abbot  seem, 

He  had  swayed  the  crosier  ^yell ; 
But  what  was  the  theme  of  the  abbot's  dream, 

The  abbot  were  loth  to  tell. 

Companionless,  for  a  mile  or  m.ore, 
He  traced  the  windings  of  the  shore. 
Oh,  beauteous  is  that  river  still, 
As  it  winds  by  many  a  sloping  hill, 
And  many  a  dim  o'erarching  grove, 
And  many  a  flat  and  sunny  cove, 
^And  terraced  lawns,  w^hose  bright  arcades 
The  honeysuckle  sweetly  shades, 
And  rocks,  whose  very  crags  seemed  bowers, 
So  gay  they  are  with  grass  and  flowers ! 

But  the  abbot  was  thinking  of  scenery, 

About  as  much  in  sooth, 
As  a  lover  thinks  of  constancy. 

Or  an  advocate  of  truth. 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  skies  in  wrath 

Grew  dark  above  his  head  ; 
He  did  not  mark  how  the  mossy  path 

Grew  damp  beneath  his  tread  ; 
And  nearer  he  came,  and  still  more  near, 

To  a  pool,  in  whose  recess 
The  water  had  slept  for  many  a  year, 

Unchanged  and  motionless; 
From  the  river  stream  it  spread  away 

The  space  of  a  half  a  rood  ; 
The  surface  had  the  hue  of  clay 
And  the  scent  of  human  blood  ; 

3 


50  THE    RED     FISHERMAN. 

The  trees  and  the  herbs  that  round  it  grew 

Were  venomous  and  foul ; 
And  the  birds  that  through  the  bushes  flew 

Were  the  vulture  and  the  owl ; 
The  water  was  as  dark  and  rank 

As  ever  a  Company  pumped  ; 
And  the  perch,  that  was  netted  and  laid  on  the  bank, 

Grew  rotten  while  it  jumped : 
And  bold  was  he  who  thither  came 

At  midnight,  man  or  boy ; 
For  the  place  was  cursed  with  an  evil  name, 

And  that  name  was  "  The  Devil's  Decoy  !" 

The  abbot  was  weary  as  abbot  could  "be, 
And  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  stump  of  a  tree  : 
When  suddenly  rose  a  dismal  tone — 
Was  it  a  song,  or  was  it  a  moan  1 
"Oh,  oh!  Oh,  oh!    , 
Above,  below  ! 
Lightly  and  brightly  they  glide  and  go  ; 
The  hungry  and  keen  on  the  top  are  leaping, 
The  lazy  and  fat  in  the  depths  are  sleeping ; 
Fishing  is  fine  when  the  pool  is  muddy. 
Broiling  is  rich  when  the  coals  are  ruddy  !" 
In  a  monstrous  fright,  by  the  murky  light, 
He  looked  to  the  left  and  he  looked  to  the  right. 
And  what  was  the  vision  close  before  him, 
That  flung  such  a  sudden  stupor  o'er  him  ? 
'Twas  a  sight  to  make  the  hair  uprise, 

And  the  life-blood  colder  run  : 
The  startled  priest  struck  both  his  thighs, 
And  the  abbey  clock  struck  one  ! 


THE     RED     FISHERMAN.  51 

All  alone,  by  the  side  of  the  pool, 

A  tall  man  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool,  j 

Kicking  his  heels  on  the  dewy  sod, 

And  putting  in  order  his  reel  and  rod ; 

Red  were  the  rags  his  shoulders  wore, 

And  a  high  red  cap  on  his  head  he  bore ; 

His  arms  and  his  legs  were  long  and  bare  ; 

And  two  or  three  locks  of  long  red  hair 

Were  tossing  about  his  scraggy  neck. 

Like  a  tattered  flag  o'er  a  splitting  wreck. 

It  might  be  Time,  or  it  might  be  trouble. 

Had  bent  that  stout  back  nearly  double — 

Sunk  in  their  deep  and  hollow  sockets 

That  blazing  couple  of  Coiigreve  rockets. 

And  shrunk  and  shrivelled  that  tawny  skin, 

Till  it  hardly  covered  the  bones  within. 

The  line  the  abbot  saw  him  throw 

Had  been  fashioned  and  formed  long  ages  ago, 

And  the  hands  that  worked  his  foreign  vest 

Long  ages  ago  had  gone  to  their  rest : 

You  would  have  sworn,  as  you  looked  on  them, 

He  had  fished  in  the  flood  with  Ham  and  Shem ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

Minnow  or  gentle,  worm  or  fly — 

It  seemed  not  such  to  the  abbot's  eye  ; 

Gaily  it  glittered  with  jewel  and  gem, 

And  its  shape  was  the  shape  of  a  diadem. 

It  was  fastened  a  gleaming  hook  about, 

By  a  chain  within  and  a  chain  without ; 


52  THE     RED     FISHERMAN. 

The  fisherman  gave  it  a  kick  and  a  spin, 
And  the  water  fizzed  as  it  tumbled  in  ! 

From  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Strange  and  varied  sounds  had  birth — 
Now  the  battle's  bui-sting  peal, 
Neigh  of  steed,  and  clang  of  steel ; 
Now  an  old  man's  hollow  groan 
Echoed  from  the  dungeon  stone ; 
Now  the  weak  and  wailing  cry 
Of  a  stripling's  agony  ! 

Cold  by  this  was  the  midnight  air  ; 

But  the  abbot's  blood  ran  colder, 
When  he  saw  a  gasping  knight  lie  there, 
With  a  gash  beneath  his  clotted  hair. 

And  a  hump  upon  his  shoulder. 
And  the  loyal  churchman  strove  in  vain 

To  mutter  a  Pater  Noster  ; 
For  he  who  writhed  in  mortal  pain 
Was  camped  that  night  on  Bosworth  plain — 

The  cruel  Duke  of  Glo'ster ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

It  was  a  haunch  of  princely  size, 

Filling  with  fragrance  earth  and  skies. 

The  corpulent  abbot  knew  full  well 

The  swelling  form,  and  the  steaming  smell ; 

Never  a  monk  that  wore  a  hood 

Could  better  have  guessed  the  very  wood 


THE     RED     FISHERMAN.  53 

Where  the  noble  hart  had  stood  at  bay, 
Weary  and  wounded,  at  close  of  day. 

Sounded  then  the  noisy  glee 
Of  a  revelling  company — 
Sprightly  story,  wicked  jest, 
Eated  servant,  greeted  guest 
Flow  of  wine,  and  flight  of  cork : 
Stroke  of  knife,  and  thrust  of  fork : 
But,  where'er  the  board  was  spread, 
Grace,  I  ween,  was  never  said ! 

Pulling  and  tugging  the  fisherman  sat ; 

And  the  priest  was  ready  to  vomit, 
When  he  hauled  out  a  gentleman,  fine  and  fat, 
With  a  belly  as  big  as  a  brimming  vat. 

And  a  nose  as  red  as  a  comet. 
"  A  capital  stew,"  the  fisherman  said, 

'•  With  cinnamon  and  sherry  !" 
And  the  abbot  turned  away  his  head. 
For  his  brother"  was  lying  before  him  dead, 

The  mayor  of  St.  Edmond's  Bury  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box : 

It  was  a  bundle  of  beautiful  things — 

A  peacock's  tail,  and  a  butterfly's  wings, 

A  scarlet  slipper,  an  auburn  curl, 

A  mantle  of  silk,  and  a  bracelet  of  pearl, 

And  a  packet  of  letters,  from  whose  sweet  fold 

Such  a  stream  of  delicate  odors  rolled, 


54  THE     RED     FISHERMAN. 

That  the  abbot  fell  on  his  face,  and  fainted, 
And  deemed  his  spirit  was  half-way  sainted. 

Sounds  seemed  dropping  from  the  skies, 
Stifled  whispers,  smothered  sighs, 
And  the  breath  of  vernal  gales, 
And  the  voice  of  nightingales : 
But  the  nightingales  were  mute, 
Envious,  when  an  unseen  lute 
Shaped  the  music  of  its  chords 
Into  passion's  thrilling  words  : 

"Smile,  lady,  smile! — I  will  not  set 
Upon  my  brow  the  coronet, 
Till  thou  wilt  gather  roses  white 
To  wear  around  its  gems  of  light. 
Smile,  lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  see 
Rivers  and  Hastings  bend  the  knee. 
Till  those  bewitching  lips  of  thine 
Will  bid  me  rise  in  bliss  from  mine. 
Smile,  lady,  smile ! — for  who  would  win 
A  loveless  throne  through  guilt  and  sin  'i 
Or  who  would  reign  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
If  woman's  heart  were  rebel  still?" 

One  jerk,  and  there  a  lady  lay, 

A  lady  wondrous  fxir; 
But  the  rose  of  her  lip  had  faded  away. 
And  her  cheek  was  as  white  and  as  cold  as  clay, 

And  torn  was  her  raven  hair. 
"  Ah,  ah !"  said  the  fisher,  in  merry  guise, 


1 

i 


THE     RED     FISHERMAN.  55 

"  Her  gallant  was  hooked  before ;" 
And  the  abbot  heaved  some  piteous  sighs, 
For  oft  he  had  blessed  those  deep  blue  eyes, 
The  eyes  of  Mistress  Shore  ! 

"Inhere  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

Many  the  cunning  sportsman  tried. 

Many  he  flung  with  a  frown  aside ; 

A  minstrel's  harp,  and  a  miser's  chest, 

A  hermit's  cowl,  and  a  baron's  crest. 

Jewels  of  lustre,  robes  of  price, 

Tomes  of  heresy,  loaded  dice, 

And  golden  cups  of  the  brightest  wine 

That  ever  was  pressed  from  the  Burgundy  vine ; 

There  was  a  perfume  of  sulphur  and  nitre, 

As  he  came  at  last  to  a  bishop's  mitre  ! 

From  top  to  toe  the  abbot  shook, 

As  the  fisherman  armed  his  golden  hook  ; 

And  awfully  were  his  features  wrought 

By  some  dark  dream  or  wakened  thought. 

Look  how  the  fearful  felon  gazes 

On  the  scaffold  his  country's  vengeance  raises, 

When  the  lips  are  cracked  and  the  jaws  are  dry 

With  the  thirst  which  only  in  death  shall  die  : 

Mark  the  mariner's  frenzied  frown 

As  the  swaling  wherry  settles  down. 

When  peril  has  numbed  the  sense  and  will, 

Though  the  hand  and  the  foot  may  struggle  still  : 

Wilder  far  was  the  abbot's  glance. 

Deeper  far  was  the  abbot's  trance  : 


56  THE     RED     FISHERMAN. 

Eixed  as  a  monument,  still  as  air, 
He  bent  no  knee,  and  he  breathed  no  prayer  ; 
But  he  signed — he  knew  not  why  or  how — 
The  sign  of  the  Cross  on  his  clammy  brow. 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 
As  he  stalked  away  with  his  iron  box. 
'■•  Oh,  ho  !  Oh,  ho  ! 
The  cock  doth  crow  j 
It  is  time  for  the  fisher  to  rise  and  go. 
Fair  luck  to  the  abbot,  fair  luck  to  the  shrine ! 
He  hath  gnawed  in  twain  my  choicest  line ; 
Let  him  swim  to  the  north,  let  him  swim  to  the  south^ 
The  abbot  will  carry  my  hook  in  his  mouth !" 

The  abbot  had  preached  for  many  years, 

With  as  clear  articulation 
As  ever  was  heard  in  the  House  of  Peers 

Against  Emancipation  j 
His  words  had  made  battalions  quake, 

Had  roused  the  zeal  of  martyrs ; 
He  kept  the  court  an  hour  awake. 

And  the  king  himself  three  quarters: 
But  ever,  from  that  hour,  'tis  said, 

He  stammered  and  he  stuttered, 
As  if  an  axe  went  through  his  head 

With  every  word  he  uttered. 
He  stuttered  o'er  blessing,  he  stuttered  o'er  ban, 

He  stuttered,  drunk  or  dry  ; 
And  none  but  he  and  the  fisherman 

Could  tell  the  reason  why  !      J^ 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

"Deep  is  the  bliss  of  the  belted  knight, 

When  he  kisses  at  dawn  the  silken  glove, 
And  rides,  in  his  glittering  armor  dight, 
To  shiver  a  lance  for  his  Lady-love ! 

"  Lightly  he  couches  the  beaming  spear ; 
His  mistress  sits  with  her  maidens  by. 
Watching  the  speed  of  his  swift  career. 

With  a  whispered  prayer  and  a  murmured  sigh. 

"  Far  from  me  is  the  gazing  throng, 

The  blazoned  shield,  and  the  nodding  plume ; 
Nothing  is  mine  but  a  worthless  song, 
A  joyless  life,  and  a  nameless  tomb." 

"Nay,  dearest  Wilfrid,  lay  like  this 

On  such  an  eve  is  much  amiss : 

Our  mirth  beneath  the  new  May  moon 

Should  be  echoed  by  a  livelier  tune. 

What  need  to  thee  of  mail  and  crest, 

Of  foot  in  stirrup,  spear  in  rest? 

Over  far  mountains  and  deep  seas, 

Earth  hath  no  fairer  fields  than  these ; 
3* 


58  LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE. 

And  who,  in  Beauty's  gaudiest  bowers, 
Can  love  thee  with  more  love  than  oursi" 


The  minstrel  turned  with  a  moody  look 

From  that  sweet  scene  of  guiltless  glee ; 
From  the  old  who  talked  beside  the  brook, 

And  the  young  who  danced  beneath  the  tree : 
Coldly  he  shrank  from  the  gentle  maid, 

From  the  chiding  look  and  the  pleading  tone ; 
And  he  passed  from  the  old  elm's  hoary  shade. 

And  followed  the  forest  path  alone. 
One  little  sigh,  one  pettish  glance, 

And  the  girl  comes  back  to  her  playmates  now, 
And  takes  her  place  in  the  merry  dance, 

With  a  slower  step  and  a  sadder  brow. 

"  My  soul  is  sick,"  saith  the  wayward  boy, 

"  Of  the  peasant's  grief,  and  the  peasant's  joy ; 

I  cannot  breathe  on  from  day  to  day. 

Like  the  insects  which  our  wise  men  say 

In  the  crevice  of  the  cold  rock  dwell. 

Till  their  shape  is  the  shape  of  their  dungeon's  cell  ; 

In  the  dull  repose  of  our  changeless  life, 

I  long  for  passion,  I  long  for  strife. 

As  in  the  calm  the  mariner  sighs 

For  rushing  waves  and  groaning  skies. 

Oh  for  the  lists,  the  lists  of  fame ! 

Oh  for  the  herald's  glad  acclaim  ; 

For  floating  pennon  and  prancing  steed. 

And  Beauty's  wonder  at  Manhood's  deed  !" 


LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE.  59 

Beneath  an  ancient  oak  he  lay  ; 
More  years  than  man  can  count,  they  say, 
On  the  verge  of  the  dim  and  solemn  wood, 
Through  sunshine  and  storm,  that  oak  had  stood. 
Many  a  loving,  laughing  sprite, 
Tended  the  branches  by  day  and  by  night ; 
And  the  leaves  of  its  age  were  as  fresh  and  green 
As  the  leaves  of  its  early  youth  had  been. 
Pure  of  thought  should  the  mortal  be 
Who  sleeps  beneath  the  Haunted  Tree  ; 
That  night  the  minstrel  laid  him  down 
'  Ere  his  brow  relaxed  its  sullen  frown  ; 
And  Slumber  had  bound  its  eyelids  fast. 
Ere  the  evil  wish  from  his  soul  had  passed. 
And  a  song  on  the  sleeper's  ear  descended, 

A  song  it  was  pain  to  hear,  and  pleasure, 
So  strangely  wrath  and  love  were  blended 

In  every  tone  of  the  mystic  measure. 

"  I  know  thee,  child  of  earth ; 

The  morning  of  thy  birth 
In  through  the  lattice  did  ray  chariot  glide  ; 

I  saw  thy  father  weep 

Over  thy  first  wild  sleep, 
I  rocked  thy  cradle  when  thy  mother  died. 

"  And  I  have  seen  thee  gaze 

Upon  these  birks  and  braes, 
Which  are  my  kingdoms,  with  irreverent  scorn  ; 

And  heard  thee  pour  reproof 

Upon  the  vine-clad  roof. 
Beneath  whose  peaceful  shelter  thou  wert  born. 


60     LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

"  I  bind  thee  in  the  snare 

Of  thine  unholy  prayer  ; 
I  seal  thy  forehead  with  a  viewless  seal : 

I  give  into  thine  hand 

The  buckler  and  the  brand, 
And  clasp  the  golden  spur  upon  thy  heel. 
"  When  thou  hast  made  thee  wise 

In  the  sad  lore  of  sighs, 
When  the  world's  visions  fail  thee  and  forsake, 

Return,  return  to  me. 

And  to  my  haunted  tree  ; 
The  charm  hath  bound  thee  now ;  Sir  Knight,  awake !" 

Sir  Isumbras,  in  doubt  and  dread, 

From  his  feverish  sleep  awoke, 
And  started  up  from  his  grassy  bed 

Under  the  ancient  oak. 
And  he  called  the  page  who  held  his  spear, 

And,  "  Tell  me,  boy,"  quoth  he, 
"  How  long  have  I  been  slumbering  here, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree  ?" — 
"  Ere  thou  didst  sleep,  I  chanced  to  throw 

A  stone  into  the  rill ; 
And  the  ripple  that  disturbed  its  flow 

Is  on  its  surface  still ; 
Ere  thou  didst  sleep,  thou  bad'st  me  sing 

King  Arthur's  favorite  lay  ; 
And  the  first  echo  of  the  string 

Has  hardly  died  away." 

"  How  strange  is  sleep  !"  the  young  knight  said, 
As  he  clasped  the  helm  upon  his  head. 


LEGEND   OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.     61 

And,  mounting  again  his  courser  black, 

To  his  gloomy  tower  rode  slowly  back  : 
"  How  strange  is  sleep  !  when  his  dark  spell  lies 
On  the  drowsy  lids  of  human  eyes, 
The  years  of  a  life  will  float  along 
In  the  compass  of  a  page's  song. 
Methought  I  lived  in  a  pleasant  vale, 
The  haunt  of  the  lark  and  the  nightingale, 
Where  the  summer  rose  had  a  brighter  hue, 
And  the  noon-day  sky  a  clearer  blue. 
And  the  spirit  of  man  in  age  and  youth 
A  fonder  love,  and  a  firmer  truth. 
And  I  lived  on,  a  fair-haired  boy. 
In  that  sweet  vale  of  tranquil  joy  ; 

Until  at  last  my  vain  caprice 

Grew  weary  of  its  bliss  and  peace. 
And  one  there  was,  most  dear  and  fair. 
Of  all  that  smiled  around  me  there — 
A  gentle  maid,  with  a  cloudless  face, 
And  a  form  so  full  of  fairy  grace ; 
Who,  when  I  turned  with  scornful  spleen 
From  the  feast  in  the  bower,  or  the  dance  on  the  green, 
Would  humor  all  my  wayward  will 
And  love  me  and  forgive  me  still. 
Even  now,  methinks,  her  smile  of  light 
Is  there  before  me,  mild  and  bright ; 
And  I  hear  her  voice  of  fond  reproof. 
Between  the  beats  of  my  palfrey's  hoof 
'T  is  idle  all :  but  I  could  weep  ; — 
Alas  !"  said  the  knight,  "  how  strange  is  sleep  !" 


^. 


•^ 


/nd    of    the    haunted    tree. 

6k  with  his  spear  the  brazen  plate 
jng  before  the  castle  gate  ; 
)rch  threw  high  its  waves  of  flame 
/brth  the  watchful  menials  came; 
They  lighted  the  way  to  the  banquet  hall, 
They  hung  the  shield  upon  the  wall, 
They  spread  the  board,  and  they  filled  the  bowl, 
And  the  phantoms  passed  from  his  troubled  soul. 


Sir  Isumbras  was  ever  found 

Where  blows  were  struck  for  glory ; 
There  sate  not  at  the  Table  Round 

A  knight  more  famed  in  story  : 
The  king  on  his  throne  would  turn  about 

To  see  his  courser  prancing ; 
And,  when  Sir  Launcelot  was  out, 

The  queen  would  praise. his  dancing; 
He  quite  wore  out  his  father's  spurs, 

Performins:  valor's  duties — 


9 


Q    Destroying  mighty  sorcerers, 
*;>         Avenging  injured  beauties. 

And  crossing  many  a  trackless  sand, 

And  rescuing  people's  daughters 
From  di'agons  that  infest  the  land, 

And  whales  that  walk  the  waters. 
He  throttled  lions  by  the  score, 

And  giants  by  the  dozen ; 
And,  for  his  skill  in  lettered  lore. 

They  called  him  "  Merlin's  Cousin." 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.     63 

A  score  of  steeds,  with  bit  and  rein, 

Stood  ready  in  his  stable ; 
An  ox  was  every  morning  slain, 

And  roasted  for  his  table. 
And  he  had  friends,  all  brave  and  tall, 

And  crowned  with  praise  and  laurel, 
Who  kindly  feasted  in  his  hall. 

And  tilted  in  his  quarrel ; 
And  minstrels  came  and  sang  his  fame 

In  very  rugged  verses  ; 
And  they  were  paid  with  wine  and  game. 

And  rings,  and  cups,  and  purses. 

And  he  loved  a  Lady  of  high  degree. 

Faith's  fortress.  Beauty's  flower  ; 
A  countess  for  her  maid  had  she. 

And  a  kingdom  for  her  dower  ; 
And  a  brow  whose  frowns  were  vastly  grand, 

And  an  eye  of  sunlit  brightness. 
And  a  swan-like  neck,  and  an  arm  and  hand 

Of  most  bewitching  whiteness  ; 
And  a  voice  of  music,  whose  sweet  tones 

Could  most  divinely  prattle 
Of  battered  casques,  and  broken  bones. 

And  all  the  bliss  of  battle. 
He  wore  her  scarf  in  many  a  fray, 

He  trained  her  hawks  and  ponies. 
And  filled  her  kitchen  every  day 
With  leverets  and  conies ; 


64  LEGEND      OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE, 

He  loved,  and  he  was  loved  again  : — 
I  won't  waste  time  in  proving, 

There  is  no  pleasure  like  the  pain 
Of  being  loved,  and  loving. 

Dame  Fortune  is  a  fickle  gipsy, 
And  always  blind,  and  often  tipsy ; 
Sometimes,  for  years  and  years  together, 
She'll  bless  you  with  the  sunniest  weather, 
Bestowing  honor,  pudding,  pence, 
You  can't  imagine  why  or  whence; — 
Then  in  a  moment — Presto,  Pass  !^ 
Your  joys  are  withered  like  the  grass ; 
You  find  your  constitution  vanish. 
Almost  as  quickly  as  the  Spanish ; 
The  murrain  spoils  your  flocks  and  fleeces  ; 
The  dry-rot  pulls  your  house  to  pieces  ; 
Your  garden  raises  only  weeds  ; 
Your  agent  steals  your  title-deeds  ; 
Your  banker's  failure  stuns  the  city  ; 
Your  father's  will  makes  Sugden  witty ; 
Your  daughter,  in  her  beauty's  bloom, 
Goes  off"  to  Gretna  with  the  groom  ; 
And  you,  good  man,  are  left  alone, 
To  battle  with  the  gout  and  stone. 

Ere  long,  Sir  Isumbras  began 
To  be  a  sad  and  thoughtful  rrian : 
They  said  the  glance  of  an  evil  eye 
Had  been  on  the  knight's  prosperity : 


LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE.  65 

Less  swift  on  the  quarry  his  falcon  went, 

Less  true  was  his  hound  on  the  wild  deer's  scent, 

And  thrice  in  the  list  he  came  to  the  earth, 

By  the  luckless  chance  of  a  broken  girth. 

And  Poverty  soon  in  her  rags  was  seen 

At  the  board  where  Plenty  erst  had  been ; 

And  the  guests  smiled  not  as  they  smiled  before, 

And  the  song  of  the  minstrel  was  heard  no  more ; 

And  a  base  ingrate,  who  was  his  foe. 

Because,  a  little  month  ago, 

He  had  cut  him  down,  with  friendly  ardor, 

From  a  rusty  hook  in  an  Ogre's  larder, 

Invented  an  atrocious  fable. 

And  libelled  his  fame  at  the  Royal  Table  : 

And  she  at  last,  the  worshipped  one. 

For  whom  his  valorous  deeds  were  done. 

Who  had  heard  his  vows,  and  worn  his  jewels, 

And  made  him  fight  so  many  duels — 

She,  too,  when  Fate's  relentless  wheel 

Deprived  him  of  the  Privy  Seal, 

Bestowed  her  smiles  upon  another, 

And  gave  his  letters  to  her  mother. 

Fortune  and  Fame — he  had  seen  them  depart. 

With  a  silent  pride  of  a  valiant  heart :  7\^ 

Traitorous  friends — he  had  passed  them  by. 

With  a  haughty  brow  and  a  stifled  sigh.  A  "-ij 

Boundless  and  black  might  roll  the  sea. 

O'er  which  the  course  of  his  bark  must  be ; 

But  he  saw,  thro'  the  storms  that  frowned  above, 

One  guiding  star,  and  its  light  was  Love. 


r 


GG     LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREK. 

Now  all  was  dark  ;  the  doom  was  spoken ! 
His  wealth  all  spent,  and  his  heart  half-broken  ; 
Poor  youth  !  he  had  no  earthly  hope, 
Except  in  laudanum,  or  a  rope. 

He  ordered  out  his  horse,  and  tried, 
As  the  Leech  advised,  a  gentle  ride. 

A  pleasant  path  he  took, 
Where  the  turf,  all  l)right  with  the  April  showers. 
Was  spangled  with  a  hundred  flowers, 

Beside  a  murmuring  brook. 
Never  before  had  he  roved  that  way  ; 
And  now,  on  a  sunny  first  of  May, 
He  chose  the  turning,  you  may  guess. 
Not  for  the  laughing  loveliness 
Of  turf,  or  flower,  or  stream  ;  but  only 
Because  it  looked  extremely  lonely. 

He  had  wandered,  musing,  scarce  a  mile, 

In  his  melancholy  mood. 
When,  peeping  o'er  a  rustic  stile. 
He  saw  a  little  village  smile, 

Embowered  in  thick  wood. 
There  were  small  cottages,  arrayed 
In  the  delicate  jasmine's  fragrant  shade  ; 
And  gardens,  whence  the  rose's  bloom 
Loaded  the  gale  with  rich  perfume ; 
And  there  were  happy  hearts  ;  for  all 
In  that  bright  nook  kept  festival, 
And  welcomed  in  the  merry  May, 
With  banquet  and  with  roundelay 


LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  TREE.     G7 

Sir  Isumbras  sate  gazing  there, 
With  folded  arms,  and  mournful  air ; 
He  fancied — 'twas  an  idle  whim — 
That  the  village  looked  like  a  home  to  him. 

And  now  a  gentle  maiden  came. 
Leaving  her  sisters  and  their  game, 

And  wandered  up  the  vale ; 
Sir  Isumbras  had  never  seen 
A  thing  so  fair — except  the  Queen  ; — 
But  out  on  Passion's  doubts  and  fears  ! 
Her  beautiful  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 

And  her  cheeks  were  wan  and  pale. 
None  courted  her  stay  of  the  joyous  throng, 

As  she  passed  from  the  group  alone  ; 
And  he  listened,  which  was  very  wrong, 
And  heard  her  singing  a  lively  song, 

In  a  very  dismal  tone  : 

"  Deep  is  the  bliss  of  the  belted  knight, 

\Yhen  he  kisses  at  dawn  the  silken  glove, 
And  goes,  in  his  glittering  armor  dight. 
To  shiver  a  lance  for  bis  Lady-love  !" 

That  thrilling  voice,  so  soft  and  clear — 

Was  it  familiar  to  his  ear  ? 

And  those  delicious  drooping  eyes. 

As  blue  and  as  pure  as  the  summer  skies — 

Had  he,  indeed,  in  other  days, 

Been  blessed  in  the  light  of  their  holy  rays? 


68  LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE. 

He  knew  not ;  but  his  knee  he  bent 

Before  her  in  most  knightly  fashion, 
And  grew  superbly  eloquent 

About  her  beauty,  and  his  passion. 
He  said  that  she  was  very  fair, 

And  that  she  warbled  like  a  linnet ; 
And  that  he  loved  her,  though  he  ne'er 

Had  looked  upon  her  till  that  minute. 
He  grieved  to  mention  that  a  Jew 

Had  seized  for  debt  his  grand  pavilion  j 
And  he  had  little  now,  'twas  true, 

To  offer,  but  a  heart  and  pillion  : 
But  what  was  wealth  1     In  many  a  fight — 

Though  he,  who  shouldn't  say  it,  said  it — 
He  still  had  borne  him  like  a  knight. 

And  had  his  share  of  blows  and  credit ; 
And  if  she  would  but  condescend 

To  meet  him  at  the  Priest's  to-morj-ow, 
And  be  henceforth  his  guide,  his  friend. 

In  every  toil,  in  every  sorrow, 
They'd  sail  instanter  from  the  Downs; 

His  hands  just  now  were  quite  at  leisure  ; 
And,  if  she  f^incied  foreign  crowns. 

He'd  win  them  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

"  A  year  is  gone" — the  damsel  sighed. 

But  blushed  not,  as  she  so  replied — 
^'  Since  one  I  loved — alas  !  how  well 

He  knew  not,  knows  not — left  our  dell. 

Time  brings  to  his  deserted  cot 

No  tidings  of  his  after  lot ; 


LEGEND     OF     THE      HAUNTED     TREE.  69 

But  his  weal  or  wo  is  still  the  theme 

Of  iny  daily  thought  and  my  nightly  dream. 

Poor  Alice  is  not  proud  or  coy  ; 

But  her  heart  is  with  her  minstrel  boy." 

Away  from  his  arms  the  damsel  bounded, 

And  left  him  more  and  more  confounded. 

He  mused  of  the  present,  he  mused  of  the  past, 

And  he  felt  that  a  spell  was  o'er  him  cast ; 

He  shed  hot  tears,  he  knew  not  why. 

And  talked  to  himself  and  made  reply, 

Till  a  calm  o'er  his  troubled  senses  crept, 

And,  as  the  daylight  waned,  he  slept. 

Poor  gentleman  ! — I  need  not  say, 

Beneath  an  ancient  oak  he  lay. 

"  He  is  welcome," — o'er  his  bed, 

Thus  the  beauteous  Fairy  said  : 
"  He  has  conned  the  lesson  now, 

He  has  read  the  book  of  pain : 
There  are  furrows  on  his  brow, 

I  must  make  it  smooth  again. 

"  Lo,  I  knock  the  spurs  away ; 
Lo,  I  loosen  belt  and  brand  ; 
Hark  !  I  hear  the  courser  neigh 
For  his  stall  in  Fairy-land. 

"  Bring  the  cap,  and  bring  the  vest, 
Buckle  on  his  sandal  shoon ; 
Fetch  his  memory  from  the  chest 
In  the  trcasui-v  of  the  Moon. 


70  LEGEND     OF     THE     HAUNTED     TREE. 

"  I  have  taught  him  to  be  wise, 

For  a  little  maiden's  sake; —     </U>cM^v  ^-K*^ 
Look,  he  opens  his  bright  eyes. 
Softly,  slowly  : — minstrel,  wake  !" 

,         The  sun  has  risen,  and  Wilfrid  is  come 
To  his  early  friends  and  his  cottage  home. 
His  hazel  eyes  and  his  locks  of  gold 
Are  just  as  they  were  in  the  time  of  old  : 
But  a  blessing  has  been  on  the  soul  within. 
For  that  is  won  from  its  secret  sin  ; 
More  loving  now,  and  worthier  love 
Of  men  below  and  of  saints  above. 
He  reins  a  steed  with  a  lordly  air, 
Which  makes  his  country  cousins  stare  : 
And  he  speaks  in  a  strange  and  courtly  phrase, 
Though  his  voice  is  the  voice  of  other  days ; 
But  where  he  has  learnfed  to  talk  and  ride, 
He  will  tell  to  none  but  his  bonny  bride. 


THE    TROUBADOUR. 


Le  Troubadour 
Brulant  d' amour. 


CANTO    I. 


French  Ballad. 


In  sooth  it  was  a  glorious  day 

For  vassal  and  for  lord, 
When  C(jeur  de  Lion  had  the  sway 

In  battle  and  at  board. 
He  was  indeed  a  royal  one, 

A  Prince  of  Paladins  ; 
Hero  of  triumph  and  of  tun, 
Of  noisy  fray  and  noisy  fun, 

Broad  shoulders  and  broad  grins. 
You  might  have  looked  from  east  to  west, 

And  then  from  north  to  south. 
And  never  found  an  ampler  breast, 

Never  an  ampler  mouth, 
A  softer  tone  for  lady's  ear, 

A  daintier  lip  for  syrup, 
Or  a  ruder  grasp  for  axe  and  spear, 

Or  a  firmer  foot  in  stirrup. 


72  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

A  ponderous  thing  was  Richard's  can, 

And  so  was  Richard's  boot, 
And  Saracens  and  liquor  ran, 

Where'er  he  set  his  foot. 
So  fiddling  here,  and  fighting  there, 

And  murdering  time  and  tune. 
With  sturdy  limb,  and  listless  a'r, 
And  gauntleted  hand,  and  jeweled  hair, 

Half  monarch,  half  bufibon,  ^  f\^^^>--,; 

He  turned  away  from  feast  to  fray, 

From  quarreling  to  quaffing. 
So  great  in  prowess  and  in  pranks, 
So  fierce  and  funny  in  the  ranks. 
That  Saladin  and  Soldan  said. 
Whene'er  that  mad-cap  Richard  led, 
Alia !  he  held  his  breath  for  dread. 

And  burst  his  sides  for  laughing ! 

At  court,  the  humor  of  a  king 

Is  always  voted  "  quite  the  thing ;" 

Morals  and  cloaks  are  loose  or  laced 

According  to  the  Sovereign's  taste. 

And  belles  and  banquets  both  are  drest 

Just  as  his  majesty  thinks  best. 

Of  course  in  that  delightful  age. 

When  Richard  ruled  the  roast, 
Cracking  of  craniums  was  the  rage, 

And  beauty  was  the  toast. 
Ay  !  all  was  l^ugh,  and  life,  and  love  ; 

And  lips  and  shrines  were  kiss'd  ; 
And  vows  were  ventured  in  the  grove, 

And  lances  in  the  list ; 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  73 

And  boys  roamed  out  in  sunny  weather 
To  weave  a  wreath  and  ihyme  together : 
While  dames,  in  silence,  and  in  satin, 
Lay  listening  to  the  soft  French-Latin, 
And  flung  their  sashes  and  their  sighs 
From  odor-breathing  balconies. 

From  those  bright  days  of  love  and  glory, 

I  take  the  hero  of  my  story. 

A  wandei-ing  Troubadour  was  he  ; 

He  bore  a  name  of  high  degree, 

And  learned  betimes  to  slay  andjlie, 

As  knights  of  high  degree  should  do. 

While  vigor  nerved  his  buoyant  arm. 

And  youth  was  his  to  cheat  and  charm, 

Being  immensely  fond  of  dancing, 

And  somewhat  given  to  romancing, 

He  roamed  about  through  towers  and  towns, 

Apostrophizing  smiles  and  frowns, 

Singing  sweet  staves  to  beads  and  bonnets, 

And  dying,  day  by  day,  in  sonnets. 

Flippant  and  fair,  and  fool  enough, 

And  careless  where  he  met  rebulV, 

Poco-curante  in  all  cases 

Of  furious  foes,  or  pretty  faces, 

With  laughing  lip,  and  jocund  eye, 

And  studied  tear,  and  practised  sigh, 

And  ready  sword,  and  ready  verse. 

And  store  of  ducats  in  his  purse, 

He  sinned  few  crimes,  loved  many  times, 

And  wrote  a  hundred  thousand  rhymes ! 


^ 


-^1 


74  THE      TROUBADOUR. 

Summers  twice  eight  had  passed  away, 
Since  in  his  nurse's  arms  he  lay, 
ja     S-<,^        A  rosy  roaring  child, 

While  all  around  was  noisy  mirth, 
And  logs  blazed  up  upon  the  hearth, 

And  bonfires  on  the  wild ; 
And  vassals  drank  the  brown  bowl  dry, 
And  cousins  knew  "  the  mother's  eye," 
And  wrinkled  crones  spoke  prophecy, 

And  his  brave  father  smiled. 
Summers  twice  eight  had  passed  away ; 
His  sire's  thin  locks  grew  very  gray ; 
He  lost  his  song,  and  then  his  shout, 
And  seldom  saw  his  bottle  out. 
Then  all  the  menials  straight  began 
To  sorrow  for  "  the  poor  old  man," 
Took  thought  about  his, shirts  and  shoe-ties, 
And  pestered  him  with  loves  and  duties: 
Young  Roger  laced  a  crimson  row 
Of  cushions  on  his  saddle-bow  ; 
Red  Wyke  at  Christmas  mingled  up 
More  sugar  in  the  wassail-cup  ; 
Fair  Margaret  laid  finer  sheets  ; 
Fat  Catharine  served  I'icher  sweets  ; 
And  all,  from  scullion  up  to  squire, 
Who  stirred  his  cup  or  kitchen  fire, 
Seemed  by  their  doings  to  determine 
The  knight  should  ne'er  be  food  for  vermin. 
All  would  not  do ;  the  knight  grew  thinner, 
And  loved  his  bed,  and  loathed  his  dinner ;  -. 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  75 

And  when  he  muttered — "  Becket — beast, 
Bring  me  the  posset — and  a  priest," 
Becket  looked  grave,  and  said  "  good  lack  !" 
And  went  to  ask  the  price  of  black. 


Masses  and  medicines  both  were  bought, 
Masses  and  medicines  both  were  naught ; 

Sir  Hubert's  race  was  run  ; 
As  best  beseemed  a  warrior  tall, 
He  died  within  his  ancient  hall : 
And  he  was  blest  by  Father  Paul, 

And  buried  by  his  son. 
'Twere  long  to  tell  the  motley  gear, 
That  waited  on  Sir  Hubert's  bier  ;• 

For  twenty  good  miles  round, 
Maiden  and  matron,  knave  and  knight. 
All  rode  or  ran  to  see  the  sight ; 

Yeomen  with  horse  and  hound,  •  > 

Gossips  in  grief  and  grogram  clad. 
Young  warriors  galloping  like  mad,  ''. 

Priors  and  peddlers,  pigs  and  pyxes, 
Cooks,  choristers,  and  crucifixes. 
Wild  urchins  cutting  jokes  and  capers, 
And  taper  shape?,  and  shapely  tapers.       ^/^Y' 
The  mighty  barons  of  the  land 
Brought  pain  in  heart,  and  four-in-hand; 
And  village  maids,  with  looks  of  wo. 
Turned  out  their  mourning,  and  their  toe. 
The  bell  was  rung,  the  hymn  was  sung. 
On  the  oak  chest  the  dust  was  flung ; 


/ 


76  THE     TUOUBADOUR. 

And  then,  beneath  the  chapel-stones, 
With  a  gilt  'scutcheon  o'er  his  bones, 
Escaped  from  feather-beds  and  fidget, 
Sir  Hubert  slept  with  Lady  Bridget. 

The  mob  departed  :  cold  and  cloud 
Shed  on  the  vault  their  icy  shroud. 

And  night  came  dark  and  dreary  ; 
But  there  young  Vidal  lingered  still, 
And  kept  his  fast  and  wept  his  fill, 
Though  the  wind  in  the  chapel  was  very  chill, 

And  Vidal  very  weary. 
Low  moaned  the  bell ;  the  torch-light  fell 

In  fitful  and  faint  flashes ; 
And  he  lay  on  the  stones,  where  his  father's  bones 

Were  mouldering  now  to  ashes ; 
And  vowed  to  be,  on  earth  and  sea, 

Whatever  stars  shone  o'er  him, 
A  trusty  knight,  in  love  and  fight, 

As  his  father  had  been  before  him. 
Then  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
Passionate  grief  was  his  delight ; 
He  thought  of  all  the  brave  and  fair 
Who  slept  their  shadowy  slumber  there; 
And  that  sweet  dotage  held  him  long. 
Ere  sorrow  found  her  voice  in  song. 


*»• 


It  was  an  ancient  thing  ;  a  song 
His  heart  had  sung  in  other  years, 

When  boyhood  had  its  idle  throng 

Of  guiltless  smiles,  and  guileless  tears ; 


I 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  77 

But  never  had  its  music  seemed 

So  sweet  to  him,  as  when  to-night 
All  lorn  and  lone,  he  kneeled  and  dreamed, 

Before  the  taper's  holy  light, 
Of  many  and  mysterious  things, 
His  cradle's  early  visitings. 
The  melancholy  tones,  that  blest 
The  pillow  of  his  sinless  rest. 
The  melody,  whose  magic  numbers 
Broke  in  by  snatches  on  his  slumbers, 
When  earth  appeared  so  brightly  dim, 
And  all  was  bliss,  and  all  for  him. 
And  every  sight  and  every  sound 
Had  heaven's  own  day-light  flowing  round. 

"  My  mother's  grave,  my  mother's  grave  ! 
Oh  !  dreamless  in  her  slumber  there. 
And  drowsily  the  banners  wave 

O'er  her  that  was  so  chaste  and  fair  ; 
Yea  !  love  is  dead,  and  memory  faded  ! 
But  when  the  dew  is  on  the  brake. 

And  silence  sleeps  on  earth  and  sea. 
And  mourners  weep,  and  ghosts  awake, 
Oh  !  then  she  cometh  back  to  me, 
In  her  cold  beauty  darkly  shaded  ! 

*'  I  cannot  guess  her  face  or  form ; 
But  what  to  me  is  form  or  face  ? 
I  do  not  ask  the  weary  worm 

To  give  me  back  cat-h  buried  grace 


78  TUETROUBADOUR. 

Of  glistening  eyes,  or  trailing  tresses ! 
I  only  feel  that  she  is  here, 

And  that  we  meet,  and  that  we  part ; 
And  that  I  drink  within  mine  ear, 
And  that  I  clasp  around  my  heart. 
Her  sweet  still  voice,  and  soft  caresses  ! 

"  Not  in  the  waking  thought  by  day, 
Not  in  the  sightless  dream  by  night, 
Do  the  mild  tones  and  glances  play. 
Of  her  who  was  my  cradle's  light ! 
But  in  some  twilight  of  calm  weather, 
She  glides,  by  fancy  dimly  wrought, 

A  glittering  cloud,  a  darkling  beam, 
With  all  the  quiet  of  a  thought, 
And  all  the  passion  of  a  dream. 
Linked  in  a  golden  spell,  together  !" 

Oh  !  Vidal's  very  soul  did  weep 
Whene'er  that  music,  like  a  charm, 
-     Brought  back  from  their  unlistening  sleep 
The  kissing  lip  and  clasping  arm. 
But  quiet  tears  are  worth,  to  some. 
The  richest  smiles  in  Christendom  ; 
And  Vidal,  though  in  folly's  ring 
He  seemed  so  weak  and  wild  a  thing, 
Had  yet  an  hour,  when  none  were  by, 
For  reason's  thought,  and  passion's  sigh. 
And  knew  and  felt,  in  heart  and  brain, 
The  Paradise  of  buried  pain  !  4-yV^ 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  79 

And  Vidal  rose  at  break  of  day, 

And  found  his  hearfr'unbroken ; 
And  told  his  beads,  and  went  away. 

On  a  steed  he  had  bespoken ; 
His  bonnet  he  drew  his  eyelids  o'er, 

For  tears  were  like  to  blind  him  ; 
And  he  spurred  Sir  Guy  o'er  mount  and  moor, 
With  a  long  dull  journey  all  before. 

And  a  short  gay  squire  behind  him. 
And  the  neighborhood  much  marvel  had ; 

And  all  who  saw  did  say. 
The  weather  and  the  roads  were  bad, 
And  either  Vidal  had  run  mad, 

Or  Guy  had  run  away  ! 
Oh !  when  a  cheek  is  to  be  dried. 

All  pharmacy  is  folly ; 
And  Vidal  knew,  for  he  had  tried. 
There's  nothing  like  a  rattling  ride 

For  curing  melancholy ! 
Three  days  he  rode  all  mad  and  mute ; 

And  when  the  sun  did  pass, 
Three  nights  he  supp'd  upon  dry  fruit, 

And  slept  upon  wet  grass. 
Beneath  an  oak,  whose  hundred  years 
Had  formed  fit  shade  for  talk  or  tears, 
On  the  fourth  day  he  lay  at  noon, 
And  i)iit  his  gilt  guitar  in  tune ; 

When  suddenly  swept  by. 
In  gold  and  silver  all  arrayed, 
A  most  resplendent  cavalcade ; 


i^ 


80  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Baron  and  Beauty,  Knave  and  Knight, 
And  lips  of  love,  and  eyes  of  light, 

All  blended  dazzlingly. 
Ah !  all  the  world  that  day  came  out, 
With  horse  and  horn,  and  song  and  shout ; 
And  belles  and  bouquets  gayly  bloomed, 
And  all  were  proud,  and  all  perfumed, 
And  gallants,  as  the  humor  rose, 
Talked  any  nonsense  that  they  chose. 
And  damsel  gave  the  reins  for  fun 
Alike  to  palfrey  and  to  pun. 

\lt  chanced  no  lady  had  been  thrown, 
No  heir  had  cracked  his  collar-bone, 
So  pleasure  laughed  on  every  cheek, 

^"  And  naught,  save  saddles,  dreamed  of  pique. 
And  brightest  of  that  brilliant  train. 
With  jeweled  bit,  and  gilded  rein, 
And  pommel  clothed  in  gorgeous  netting, 
And  courser  daintily  curvetting. 
Girt  round  with  gallant  Cavaliers, 
Some  deep  in  love,  and  some  in  years. 
Half  exquisites  and  half  absurds. 
All  babbling  of  their  beasts  and  birds, 
Quite  tired  of  trumpeting  and  talking, 
The  Baroness  returned  from  hawking. 


The  lady  halted ;  well  she  might ; 

For  Vidal  was  so  fair. 
You  would  have  thought  some  god  of  light 

Had  walked  to  take  the  air ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  81 

Bare  were  both  his  delicate  hands, 

And  the  hue  on  his  cheek  was  high, 
As  woman's  when  she  understands 

Her  first  fond  lover's  sigh  ; 
And  desolate  very,  and  very  dumb, 

And  rolling  his  eyes  of  blue, 
And  rubbing  his  forehead,  and  biting  his  thumb, 

As  lyrists  and  lovers  do. 
Like  Queen  Titania's  darling  pet, 

Or  Oberon's  wickedest  elf, 
He  lay  beside  a  rivulet, 

And  looked  beside  himself; 
And  belles  full  blown,  and  beaux  full  drest, 

Stood  there  with  smirk  and  smile. 
And  many  a  finger,  and  many  a  jest. 

Were  pointed  all  the  while. 

Then  Vidal  came,  and  bent  his  knees 

Before  the  lady  there. 
And  raised  his  bonnet,  that  the  breeze 

Might  trifle  with  his  hair  ; 

And  said,  he  was  a  nameless  youth. 

Had  learned  betimes  to  tell  the  truth. 

Could  greet  a  friend,  and  grasp  a  foe, 

Could  take  a  jest,  and  give  a  blow, 

Had  no  idea  of  false  pretences, 

Had  lost  his  father,  and  his  senses. 

Was  travelling  over  land  atid  sea, 

Armed  with  guitar  and  gallantry  ; 

And  if  her  will  found  aiight  of  pleasure 

In  trifling  soul,  and  tinkling  measure, 

4* 


82  THETROUBADOUR. 

He  prayed  that  she  would  call  her  own 
His  every  thought,  and  every  tone. 

"  Bonne  grace,  good  Mary,  and  sweet  St.  John  !' 
That  haughty  dame  did  say  ; 

"  A  goodly  quarry  I  have  won, 
In  this  our  sport  to-day  ! 
A  precious  page  is  this  of  mine, 
To  carve  my  meat  and  pour  my  wine, 
To  loose  my  greyhound's  ringing  chain, 
And  hold  my  palfrey's  gaudy  rein, 
And  tell  strange  tales  of  moody  sprites, 
Around  the  hearth,  on  winter  nights. 
Marry  !  a  wilful  look,  and  wild  ! 
But  we  shall  tame  the  wayward  child, 
And  dress  his  roving  locks  demurely, 
And  tie  his  jesses  on  securely." 

She  took  from  out  her  garment's  fold 
A  dazzling  gaud  of  twisted  gold  ; 

She  raised  him  from  his  knee  ; 
The  diamond  cross  she  gravely  kiss'd, 
And  twined  the  links  around  his  wrist 

With  such  fine  witchery, 
That  there  he  kneeled,  and  met  her  glance 
In  silence  and  a  moveless  trance. 
And  saw  no  sight,  and  heard  no  sound. 
And  knew  himself  more  firmly  bound 
Thai!  if  a  hundred  weight  of  steel 
Had  fettered  him  from  head  to  heel ! 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  83. 

And  from  that  moment  Vidal  gave 

His  childish  fancy  up, 
Became  her  most  peculiar  slave, 
And  wore  her  scarf,  and  whipped  her  knave, 

And  filled  her  silver  cup. 
She  was  a  widow :  on  this  earth 
It  seemed  her  only  task  was  mirth ; 
She  had  no  nerves  and  no  sensations, 
No  troubling  friends  nor  poor  relations ; 
No  gnawing  grief  to  feel  a  care  for, 
No  living  soul  to  breathe  a  prayer  for. 
Ten  years  ago  her  lord  and  master 
Had  chanced  upon  a  sad  disaster  ; 
One  night  his  servants  found  him  lying 
Speechless  or  senseless,  dead  or  dying. 
With  shivered  sword  and  dabbled  crest, 
And  a  small  poniard  in  his  breast. 
And  nothing  further  to  supply 
The  slightest  hint  of  how  or  why. 
As  usual,  in  such  horrid  cases, 
The  men  made  oath,  the  maids  made  faces ; 
All  thought  it  most  immensely  funny 
The  murderer  should  have  left  the  money. 
And  showed  suspicions  in  dumb  crambo, 
And  buried  him  with  fear  and  flambeau. 


Clotilda  shrieked  and  swooned,  of  course, 

Grew  very  ill,  and  very  hoarse, 

Put  on  a  veil,  put  off  a  rout, 

Turned  all  her  cooks  and  courtiers  out, 


84  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  lived  two  years  on  water-gruel, 
And  drank  no  wine,  and  used  no  fuel. 
<         At  last,  when  all  the  world  had  seen 
How  very  virtuous  she  had  been. 
She  left  her  chamber,  dried  her  tears, 
Kept  open  house  for  Cavaliers, 
New  furnished  all  the  cob-webbed  rooms, 
And  burned  a  fortune  in  perfumes. 
She  had  seen  six-and-thirty  springs. 
And  still  her  blood's  warm  wanderings 
Told  tales  in  every  throbbing  vein 
Of  youth's  high  hope,  and  passion's  reign. 
And  dreams  from  which  that  lady's  heart 
Had  parted,  or  had  seemed  to  part. 
She  had  no  wiles  from  cunning  Trance, 
Too  cold  to  sing,  too  tall  to  dance ; 
But  yet,  where'er  her  footsteps  went, 
She  was  the  Queen  of  Merriment : 
She  called  the  quickest  at  the  table. 
For  Courcy's  song,  or  Comine's  fable. 
Bade  Barons  quarrel  for  her  glove. 
And  talked  with  Squires  of  ladie-love, 
And  hawked  and  hunted  in  all  weathers, 
And  stood  six  feet — including  feathers. 

Her  suitors,  men  of  swords  and  banners, 
Were  very  guarded  in  their  manners. 
And  e'en  when  heated  by  the  jorum 
Knew  the  strict  limits  of  decorum. 
Well  had  Clotilda  learned  the  glance 
That  checks  a  lover's  first  advance ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  85 

That  brow  to  her  was  given 
That  chills  presumption  in  its  birth, 
And  mars  the  madness  of  our  mirth, 
And  wakes  the  reptile  of  the  earth 

From  the  vision  he  hath  of  Heaven. 
And  yet  for  Vidal  she  could  find 
No  word  or  look  that  was  not  kind. 
With  him  she  walked  in  shine  or  shower, 
And  quite  forgot  the  dinner  hour, 
And  gazed  upon  him,  till  he  smiled, 
As  doth  a  mother  on  a  child. 
Oh !  when  was  di'eam  so  purely  dreamed ! 
A  mother  and  a  child  they  seemed : 
In  warmer  guise  he  loved  her  not ; — 

And  if,  beneath  the  stars  and  moon. 
He  lingered  in  some  lonely  spot 

To  play  her  fond  and  favorite  tune. 
And  if  he  fed  her  petted  mare, 
And  made  acquaintance  with  her  bear, 
And  kissed  her  hand  whene'er  she  gave  it 
And  kneeled  him  down,  sometimes,  to  crave  it, 
'Twas  partly  pride,  and  partly  jest. 

And  partly  'twas  a  boyish  whim,  -    \ 

And  that  he  liked  to  see  the  rest 

Look  angrily  on  her  and  him. 
And  that — in  short  he  was  a  boy,  ^ 

And  doted  on  his  last  new  toy. 

It  chanced  that  late,  one  summer's  gloaming, 
The  lady  and  the  youth  were  roaming. 


86  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

In  converse  close  of  those  and  these, 
Beneath  a  long  arcade  of  trees ; 
Tall  trunks  stood  up  on  left  and  right, 
Like  columns  in  the  gloom  of  night, 
Breezeless  and  voiceless  ;  and  on  high, 
Where  those  eternal  pillars  ended, 
The  silent  boughs  so  closely  blended 
Their  mirk,  unstirring  majesty, 
That  superstition  well  might  run. 
To  wander  there  from  twelve  to  one, 
And  call  strange  shapes  from  heaven  or  hell, 
Of  cowl  and  candle,  book  and  bell, 
And  kneel  as  in  the  vaulted  aisle 
Of  some  time-honored  Gothic  pile. 
To  pay  her  weary  worship  there 
Of  counted  beads,  and  pattered  prayer. 

Clotilda  had,  for  once,  the  vapors, 
And  when  the  stars  lit  up  their  tapers, 
She  said  that  she  was  very  weary — 
She  liked  the  place,  it  was  so  dreary — 
The  dew  was  down  on  grass  and  flower, 

'Twas  very  wet-r-'twas  very  wrong — • 
But  she  rmist  rest  for  half  an  hour, 

And  listen  to  another  song. 

Then  many  a  tale  did  Vidal  tell 
Of  warrior's  spear,  and  wizard's  spell ; 
How  that  Sir  Brian  le  Bleu  had  been 
Cup-bearer  to  a  fairy  queen ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  87 

And  how  that  a  hundred  years  did  pass, 
And  left  his  brow  as  smooth  as  glass ; 
Time  on  his  form  marked  no  decay, 
He  stole  not  a  single  charm  away, 

He  could  not  blight 

That  eye  of  light, 
Nor  turn  those  raven  ringlets  gray. 

But  Brian's  love  for  a  mortal  maid, 

Was  written  and  read  in  a  magic  sign. 
When  Brian  slipped  on  the  moonlight  glade. 

And  spilled  the  fairy's  odorous  wine ; 
And  she  dipped  her  fingers  in  the  can. 

And  sprinkled  him  with  seven  sprinkles, 
And  he  went  from  her  presence  a  weary  man, 

A  withering  lump  of  rheum  and  wiinkles. 

And  how  that  Satan  made  a  bond 

With  Arraonell  of  Trebizond — 

A  bond  that  was  written  at  first  in  tears, 

And  torn  at  last  in  laughter — 
To  be  his  slave  for  a  thousand  years. 

And  his  sovereign  ever  after. 

And  oh !  those  years,  they  fleeted  fast, 
And  a  single  year  remained  at  last, 
A  year  for  crouching  and  for  crying, 
Between  his  frolic  and  his  frying. 

"Toil  yet  another  toil,"  quoth  he, 
"  Or  else  thy  prey  I  will  not  be, 


88  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  servant  mine, 

And  call  me  back 

The  faded  track 
Of  years  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine !" 
And  Satan  hied  to  his  home  again 
On  the  wings  of  a  blasting  hurricane, 
And  left  old  Armonell  to  die. 
And  sleep  in  the  odor  of  sanctity. 

In  mockery  of  the  Minstrel's  skill 
The  Lady's  brow  grew  darker  still ; 

She  trembled  as  she  lay, 
And  o'er  her  face,  like  fitful  flame, 
The  feverish  color  went  and  came, 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  tune. 
Her  black  eyes  stared  upon  the  moon 

With  an  unearthly  ray. 

"  Good  Vidal," — as  she  spoke  she  leant 
So  wildly  o'er  the  instrument 
That  wondering  Vidal  started  back, 
For  fear  the  strings  should  go  to  wrack— 
"  Good  Vidal,  I  have  read  and  heard 

Of  many  a  haunted  heath  and  dell. 
Where  potency  of  wand  or  word. 

Or  chanted  rhyme,  or  written  spell, 
Hath  burst,  in  such  an  hour  as  this. 

The  cerements  of  the  rotting  tomb, 
And  waked  from  wo,  or  torn  from  bliss. 

The  heritors  of  chill  and  gloom, 


THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Until  they  walked  upon  the  earth, 
Unshrouded,  in  a  ghastly  mirth, 
And  frightened  men  with  soundless  cries. 
And  hueless  cheeks,  and  rayless  eyes. 
Such  power  there  is ! — if  such  be  thine, 
Why,  make  to-night  that  sound  or  sign  ; 
And  while  the  vapory  sky  looks  mirk 
In  horror  at  our  midnight  work, 
We  two  will  sit  on  two  green  knolls, 
And  jest  with  unembodied  souls, 
And  mock  at  every  moody  sprite 
That  wanders  from  his  bed  to-night." 

The  boy  jumped  up  in  vast  surprise, 
And  rubbed  his  forehead  and  his  eyes,-- 
And  quite  unable  to  reflect, 
Made  answer  much  to  this  effect : 
"  Lady ! — the  saints  befriend  a  sinner  ! 
Lady  ! — she  drank  too  much  at  dinner !     'v, 
I  know  a  rhyme,  and — ghosts  forsooth ! 
I  used  to  sing  it  in  my  youth  ; 
'Twas  taught  me — curse  my  foolish  vanity ! 
By  an  old  wizard — stark  insanity ! 
Who  came  from  Tunis — 'tis  the  hock  ! 
At  a  great  age  and — twelve  o'clock  ! 
He  wore — oh,  Lord  ! — a  painted  girdle. 
For  which  they  burnt  him  on  a  hurdle  ; 
He  had  a  charm,  but — what  the  deuce  ! 
It  Masn't  of  the  slightest  use; 
There's  not  a  single  ghost  that  cares 
For — mercy  on  nic  !  how  she  stares!" 


89 


90  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  then  again  he  sate  him  down, 
For  fiercer  fell  Clotilda's  frown, 
And  played,  abominably  ill, 
And  horribly  against  his  will. 


"Spirits,  that  walk  and  wail  to-night, 
I  feel,  I  feel  that  ye  are  near ; 
There  is  a  mist  upon  my  sight, 
There  is  a  murmur  in  mine  ear. 
And  a  dark,  dark  dread 
Of  the  lonely  dead, 
Creeps  through"  the  whispering  atmosphere ! 

"  Ye  hover  o'er  the  hoary  trees, 

And  the  old  oaks  stand  bereft  and  bare ; 
Ye  hover  o'er  the  moonlight  seas, 

And  the  tail  masts  rot  in  the  poisoned  air 
Ye  gaze  on  the  gate 
Of  earthly  state. 
And  the  ban-dog  shivers  in  silence  there. 

"  Come  hither  to  me  upon  your  cloud. 
And  tell  me  of  your  bliss  or  pain, 
And  let  me  see  your  shadowy  shroud. 
And  colorless  lip,  and  bloodless  vein  ; 
Where  do  ye  dwell. 
In  heaven  or  hell, 
And  why  do  ye  wander  on  earth  again? 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  91 

•'Tell  to  me  where  and  how  ye  died, 
Fell  ye  in  darkness,  or  fell  ye  in  day, 
On  lorn  hill-side,  or  roaring  tide. 
In  gorgeous  feast,  or  rushing  fray  1 
By  bowl  or  blow, 
From  friend  or  foe. 
Hurried  your  angry  souls  away  1 

"  Mute  ye  come,  and  mute  ye  pass, 

Your  tale  untold,  your  shrift  unshriven ; 
But  ye  have  blighted  the  pale  grass, 

And  scared  the  ghastly  stars  from  heaven  ; 
And  guilt  hath  known 
Your  voiceless  moan. 
And  felt  that  the  blood  is  unforsiven  !" 


■»' 


He  paused;  for  silently  and  slow 

The  lady  left  his  side  ; 
It  seemed  her  blood  had  ceased  to  flow, 
For  her  cheek  was  as  white  as  the  morning  snow 

And  the  light  of  her  eyes  had  died. 
She  gazed  upon  some  form  of  fright — 
But  it  was  not  seen  of  Vidal's  sight :  _ 

She  di-ank  some  sound  of  hate  or  fear —  '^  iA^*'^^' 
But  it  was  not  heard  of  Vidal's  ear ; 
"  Look  !  look  !"  she  said  ;  and  Vidal  spoke — 
"  Whv  !  zounds  !  it's  nothing  but  an  oak  !" 

"  Valence  !"  she  muttered,  "  1  will  rise  ; 
Ay  !  turn  not  those  dead  orbs  on  mine; 
Fearless  to-night  are  these  woin  eyes. 
And  nerveless  is  tliat  arm  of  thine. 


92  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Thrice  hast  thou  fleeted  o'er  my  path  ; 

And  I  Avoiild  hear  thy  dull  lips  say, 
Is  it  in  sorrow,  or  in  wrath, 

That  thou  dost  haunt  my  lonely  way  1 
Ay  !  frown  not !  heaven  may  blast  me  now, 

In  this  dark  hour,  in  this  cold  spot ; 
And  then — I  can  but  be  as  thou, 

And  hate  thee  still,  and  fear  thee  not !" 
She  strode  two  steps,  and  stretched  her  hand, 
In  attitude  of  stern  command ; 
The  tremor  of  her  voice  and  tread 
Had  more  of  passion  than  of  dread, 
The  net  had  parted  from  her  hair, 
The  locks  fell  down  in  the  powerless  air. 
Her  frame  with  strange  convulsion  rocked — - 
And  Vidal  was  intensely  shocked. 
The  lady  drew  a  long  low  sigh. 
As  if  some  voice  had  made  reply, 
Though  Vidal  could  not  catch  a  word. 
And  thought  it  horribly  absurd. 
"  Remember  it  1 — avenging  power  ! 

I  ask  no  word,  I  need  no  sign. 
To  teach  me  of  that  withering  hour. 

That  linked  this  wasted  hand  in  thine  ! 
He  was  not  there ! — I  deemed  him  slain — 
And  thine  the  guilt — and  mine  the  pain  !  .t^ 

There  are  memorials  of  that  day  t*     -i^' 


Which  time  shall  never  blot  away, 
Unheeded  prayer,  unpardoned  sin, 
And  smiles  without,  and  flames  within 


A 


//\ 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  93 

And  broken  heart,  and  ruined  fame, 
And  glutted  hate,  and  dreaded  shame, 
And  late  remorse,  and  dreams,  and  fears, 
And  bitter  and  enduring  tears  !" 

She  listened  there  another  space, 
And  stirred  no  feature  of  her  face, 
Though  big  drops,  ere  she  spoke  again, 
Fell  from  her  clammy  brow  like  rain : 
At  last  she  glanced  a  wilder  stare. 
And  stamped  her  foot,  and  tore  her  hair. 
"  False  fiend  !  thou  liest,  thou  hast  lied  ! 

He  was,  what  thou  couldst  never  be — 
In  anguish  true,  in  danger  tried — 

Their  friend  to  all — my  god  to  me ! 
He  loved — as  thou  couldst  never  love — 

Long  years — and  not,  till  then,  in  guilt ; 
Nay  !  point  not  to  the  wailing  grove, 

I  know  by  whom  the  blood  was  spilt, 
I  saw  the  tomb,  and  heard  the  knell 

And  life  to  me  was  lorn  and  blighted,  r 

He  died — and  vengeance  watches  well ! 

He  died — and  thou  wert  well  requited !" 

Again  she  listened  : — full  five  score 
You  might  have  counted  duly  o'er — 
And  then  she  laughed ;  so  fierce  and  shrill 
That  laughter  echoed  o'er  the  hill. 
That  Vidal  deemed  the  very  ground 
Did  shake  at  its  unearthly  sound. 


94  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

"  I  do  not  tremble  !  be  it  so  ! — 
Or  here  or  there  !  in  bliss  or  wo  ! — 
Yea !  let  it  be  !  and  we  will  meet. 

Where  never "  and  at  Vidal's  feet 

She  sank,  as  senseless  and  as  cold 

As  if  her  death  were  two  days  old  ;  •  9 

And  Vidal,  who  an  hour  before 

Had  voted  it  a  horrid  bore, 

His  silken  sash  with  speed  unlaced, 

And  bound  it  round  her  neck  and  waist, 

And  bore  her  to  her  castle-gate, 

And  never  stopped  to  rest  or  bait, 

Speeding  as  swiftly  on  his  track 

As  if  nine  .fiends  were  at  his  back. 

Then  rose  fi'om  fifty  furious  lungs 
A  Babel  of  discordant  tongues : 
"  Jesu  !  the  Baroness  is  dead  ! — 
Shouldn't  her  Ladyship  be  bled  ? — 
Her  fingers  are  as  cold  as  stone  ! — ■ 
And  look  how  white  her  lips  are  grown  i 
A  dreadful  thing  for  all  who  love  her ! 
'Tis  ten  to  one  she  won't  recover  ! — 
Ten  ? — did  you  ever,  Mrs,  Anne? 
Ten  rogues  against  one  honest  man  ! — 
How  master  Vidal  must  have  fought ! 
It's  what  I  never  should  have  thought; 
He  seems  the  sickliest  thing  alive  ; — 
They  say  he  killed  and  wounded  five  ! — 
Is  master  Vidal  killed  and  wounded? 
I  trust  the  story  is  unfounded  ! — 


THE      TROUBADOUR.  95 

I  saw  him  on  his  legs  just  now, — 

What !  sawed  his  legs  offi  well,  T  vow — 

Peace,  babbler,  peace !  you  see  you've  shocked  her ! 

Help  !  ho  ! — cold  water  for  the  Doctor  ! 

Her  eyes  are  open  ! — how  they  blink ! 

Why,  Doctor,  do  you  really  think, 

My  Lord,  we  never  think  at  all ; 

I'll  trouble  you  to  clear  the  Hall, 

And  check  all  tendency  to  riot, 

And  keep  the  Castle  very  quiet ; 

Let  none  but  little  Bertha  stay  ; 

And — try  to  keep  the  Friar  away  !" 

Poor  Vidal,  who,  amid  the  rout. 

Had  crept  in  cautious  silence  out. 

Reeled  to  his  chamber  in  the  staggers. 

And  thought  of  home,  and  dreamed  of  daggers. 

Day  dawned  :  the  Baroness  was  able 
To  beam,  upon  the  breakfast  table, 
As  well  as  could  be  well  expected, 
Before  the  guests  were  half  collected. 
"  A  fainting  fit ; — a  thing  of  course  ; — 
In  sooth  it  might  have  ended  worse  ; 
Exceedingly  obliged  to  Vidal  ; — 
Pray,  had  the  groom  repaired  her  bridle  ? 
She  walked  too  late ; — it  was  a  warning; 
And — who  was  for  the  chase  this  morning  1" 

Days  past,  and  weeks  :  Clotilda's  mien 
Was  gay  as  it  before  had  been, 


96  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  only  once  or  twice  her  glance 

Fell  darkly  on  his  countenance, 

And  gazed  into  his  eyes  of  blue, 

As  if  she  read  his  young  heart  through : 

At  length  she  mildly  hinted — "  Surely 

Vidal  was  looking  very  poorly — 

He  never  talked — had  parted  quite 

With  spirits,  and  with  appetite — 

She  thought  he  wanted  change  of  air, 

It  was  a  shame  to  keep  him  there — 

She  had  remarked  the  change  with  sorrow, 

And well,  he  should  set  out  to-morrow." 

The  morrow  came,  't  was  glorious  weather, 

And  all  the  household  flocked  together 

To  hold  his  stirrup  and  his  rein, 

And  say,  "  Heaven  speed  !"  with  might  and  mam. 

Clotilda  only  said  "  Farewell !" 

And  gave  her  hand  to  kiss  and  clasp ; 
He  thought  it  trembled,  as  it  fell 

In  silence  from  his  lip  and  grasp, 
And  yet  upon  her  cheek  and  brow 
There  dwelt  no  flush  of  passion  now  ; 
Only  the  kind  regret  was  there 
Which  severed  friends  at  parting  wear, 
And  the  sad  smile  and  glistening  eye 
Seemed  naught  to  shun,  and  naught  defy. 

"  Farewell !"  she  said,  and  so  departed  ; 
And  Vidal  from  his  reverie  started, 
And  blessed  his  soul,  and  cleared  his  throat, 
And  crossed  his  forehead — and  the  moat. 


i 


THETBOUBADOUR.  ^' 


CANTO    II. 


All  milliners  who  start  from  bed 
To  gaze  upon  a  coat  of  red, 

Or  listen  to  a  drum, 
Know  very  well  the  Paphian  Queen 
Was  never  yet  at  Paphos  seen, 

That  Cupid's  all  a  hum, 
That  minstrels  forge  confounded  lies, 
About  the  Deities  and  skies, 
That  torches  all  go  out  sometimes. 
That  flowers  all  fade  except  in  rhymes, 
That  maids  are  seldom  shot  with  arrows 
And  coaches  never  drawn  by  sparrows. 

And  yet,  fair  cousin,  do  not  deem 

That  all  is  false  which  poets  tell 
Of  Passion's  first  and  dearest  dream, 

Of  haunted  spot,  and  silent  spell, 
Of  long  low  musing,  such  as  suits 

The  terrace  on  your  own  dark  hill. 
Of  whispers  which  are  sweet  as  lutes, 

And  silence  which  is  sweeter  still ; 
Believe,  believe — for  May  shall  pass, 

And  summer  sun  and  winter  shower 
Shall  dim  the  freshness  of  the  grass, 

And  mar  the  fragrance  of  the  flower — 
Believe  it  all,  whate'er  you  hear 

Of  plighted  vow,  and  treasured  token, 
And  hues  which  only  once  appear, 

And  words  which  only  once  are  spoken, 


98  THETROUBADOTJR. 

And  prayers  whose  natural  voice  is  song, 

And  schemes  that  die  in  wild  endeavor. 
And  tears  so  pleasant,  yon  will  long 

To  weep  such  pleasant  tears  for  ever. 
Believe  it  all,  believe  it  all ! 

Oh !  Virtue's  frown  is  all  divine ; 
And  Folly  hides  his  happy  thrall 

In  sneers  as  cold  and  false  as  mine ; 
And  Reason  piates  of  wrong  and  right. 

And  marvels  hearts  can  break  or  bleed, 
And  flings  on  all  that's  warm  and  bright 

The  winter  of  his  icy  creed ; 
But  when  the  soul  has  ceased  to  glow. 

And  years  and  cares  are  coming  fast, 
There's  nothing  like  young  love  !  no,  no  ! 

There's  nothing  like  young  love  at  last  I 

The  Convent  of  St.  Ursula 
Has  been  in  a  marvellous  fright  to-day ; 
The  nuns  are  all  in  a  terrible  pother 
Scolding  and  screaming  at  one  another; 
Two  or  three  pale,  and  two  or  three  red, 
Two  or  three  frightened  to  death  in  bed, 
Two  or  three  waging  a  word}'  war 
With  the  wide-eared  Saints  of  the  Calendar. 
Beads  and  lies  have  both  been  told, 
Tempers  are  hot,  and  dishes  are  cold; 
Celandine  rends  her  last  new  veil, 
Leonore  babbles  of  horns  and  tail  ; 
Celandine  proses  of  songs  and  slips, 
Violette  blushes  and  bites  her  lips : 


THETROUBADOUR.  99 

Oh !  what  is  the  matter,  the  matter  to-day, 

With  the  Convent  of  St.  Ursula  ? 

But  the  Abbess  has  made  the  chiefest  din, 

And  cried  the  loudest  cry  ; 
She  has  pinned  her  cap  with  a  crooked  pin, 
And  talked  of  Satan  and  talked  of  sin. 

And  set  her  coif  awry  ; 
And  she  can  never  quiet  be  ; 

But  ever  since  the  Matins, 
In  gallery  and  scullery, 
And  kitchen  and  refectory, 

She  tramps  it  in  her  pattens ; 
(,)h  !  what  is  the  matter,  the  nlatter  to-day 
With  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula? 


Thrice  in  the  silence  of  eventime 
A  desperate  foot  has  dared  to  climb 

Over  the  Convent  gate  ; 
Thrice  a  venturous  voice  and  lute 
Have  dared  to  wake  their  amorous  suit, 
Among  the  Convent  flowers  and  fruit. 

Abominably  late : 
And  thrice,  the  beldames  know  it  well, 
From  out  the  lattice  of  her  cell. 
To  listen  to  that  murmured  measure 
Of  life,  and  love,  and  hope,  and  pleasure, 
With  thro})bing  heart  and  eyelid  wet, 
Hath  leaned  the  novice  Violette  ; 
And  c)h !  you  may  tell  from  her  mournful  gaze, 
Her  vision  hath  been  of  those  dear  days. 


100  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

When  happily  o'er  the  quiet  lawn, 

Bright  with  the  dew's  most  heavenly  sprinkles, 
She  scared  the  pheasant,  and  chased  the  fawn. 

Till  a  smile  came  o'er  her  father's  wrinkles. 
Or  stood  beside  that  water  fair. 

Where  moonlight  slept  with  a  ray  so  tender, 
That  every  star  which  glistened  there, 

Glistened,  she  thought,  with  a  double  splehdor; 
And  oh !  she  loved  the  ripples'  play. 

As  to  her  feet  the  truant  rovers 
Wandered  and  went  with  a  laugh  away. 

Kissing  but  once,  like  wayward  lovers. 
And  oh  !  she  loved  the  night-wind's  moan. 

And  the  dreary  watch-dog's  lonely  yelling. 
And  the  sentinel's  unchanging  tone. 

And  the  chapel  chime  so  sadly  knelling. 
And  the  echoes  from  the  Castle  hall. 

Of  circling  song  and  noisy  gladness. 
And,  in  some  silent  interval, 

The  nightingale's  deep  voice  of  sadness. 
Alas!  there  comes  a  winter  bleak 

On  the  lightest  joy,  and  the  loveliest  flower : 
And  the  smiles  have  faded  on  Violette's  cheek. 

And  the  roses  have  withered  in  Violette's  bower, 
But  now  by  the  beautiful  turf  and  tide 

Poor  Violette's  heart  in  silence  lingers ; 
And  the  thrilling  tears  of  memory  glide 

Thro'  the  trembling  veil  and  the  quivering  fingers. 
Yet  not  for  these,  for  these  alone, 
,  That  innocent  heart  beats  high  to-day ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  101 

And  not  for  these  the  stifled  moan 

Is  breathed  in  such  thick  passionate  tone, 

That  not  the  lips  appear  to  pray. 
But  you  may  deem  those  murmurs  start  ' 
Forth  from  the  life-strings  of  the  heart, 
So  wild  and  strange  is  that  long  sigh, 
So  full  of  bliss  and  agony  ! 

She  thinks  of  him,  the  lovely  boy, 

Sweet  Vidal,  with  his  face  of  joy — 

The  careless  mate  of  all  the  glee 

That  shone  upon  her  infancy — 

The  baby-lover,  who  had  been 

The  sceptred  King,  where  she  was  Queen, 

On  Childhood's  dream-encircled  strand, 

The  undisputed  Fairy -land ! 

She  thinks  of  him,  she  thinks  of  him. 

The  lord  of  every  wicked  whim, 

Who  dared  Sir  Prinsamour  to  battle, 

And  drove  away  De  Clifford's  cattle, 

And  sang  an  Ave  at  the  feast, 

And  made  wry  faces  at  the  Priest, 

And  ducked  the  Duchess  in  the  sea. 

And  tore  Sir  Roland's  pedigree. 

She  thinks  of  him — the  forehead  fair, 
The  ruddy  lip,  and  glossy  hair — 
The  mountains,  where  they  roved  together, 
In  life's  most  bright  and  witching  weather — 
The  wreck  they  watched  upon  the  coast — 
Till'  ruin  whore  thcv  saw  llic  ghost — 


102  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

The  fairy  tale  he  loved  to  tell — 

The  serenade  he  sang  so  well ; 

And  then  she  tnrns  and  sees  again 

The  naked  wall,  and  grated  pane, 

And  frequent  winks  and  frequent  frowns, 

And  'broidered  books,  and  'broidered  gowns, 

And  plaster  saints  and  plaster  patrons, 

And  three  impracticable  matrons. 

She  was  a  very  pretty  Nun : 
Sad,  delicate,  and  five  feet  one ; 
Her  face  was  oval,  and  her  eye 
Looked  like  the  Heaven  in  Italy, 
Serenely  blue,  and  softly  bright. 
Made  up  of  languish  and  of  light! 
And  her  neck,  except  where  the  locks  of  brown, 
Like  a  sweet  summer  mist,  fell  droopingly  down, 
Was  as  chill  and  as  white  as  the  snow,  ere  the  earth 
Has  sullied  the  hue  of  its  heavenly  birth  ; 
And  through  the  blue  veins  you  might  see 
/       The  pure  blood  wander  silently. 

Like  noiseless  eddies,  that  far  below 
In  the  glistening  depths  of  a  calm  lake  flow : 
Her  cold  hands  on  her  bosom  lay ; 
And  her  ivory  crucifix,  cold  as  they. 
Was  clasped  in  a  fearful  and  fond  caress, 
'As  if  she  shrank  from  its  holiness. 
And  felt  that  hers  was  the  only  guilt 
For  which  no  healing  blood  was  spilt: 
And  tears  were  bursting  all  the  while ; 
Yet  now  and  then  a  vacant  smile 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  103 

Over  her  lips  would  come  and  go — 

A  very  mockery  of  wo — 

A  brief,  wan  smile — a  piteous  token 

Of  a  warm  love  crushed,  and  a  young  heart  broken ! 

"  !Marry  come  up  !"  said  Celandine, 
Whose  nose  was  ruby  red, 

"  From  venomous  cates  and  wicked  wine 
A  deadly  sin  is  bred. 
Darkness  and  anti-phlogistic  diet, 
These  will  keep  the  pulses  quiet ; 
Silence  and  solitude,  bread  and  water — 
So  must  we  cure  our  erring  daughter !" 
I  have  dined  at  an  Alderman's  board, 
I  have  drunk  with  a  German  lord,^- 
But  richer  was  Celandine's  own  pate 
Than  Sir  William's  soup  on  Christmas  day, 
And  sweeter  the  flavor  of  Celandine's  flask 
Than  the  loveliest  cup  from  a  Rhenish  cask  ! 

"  Saints  keep  us  !"  said  old  Winifrede, 
"  Saints  keep  and  cure  us  all ! 
And  let  us  hie  to  our  book  and  bead, 

Or  sure  the  skies  will  fall  ! 
Is  she  a  Heathen  or  is  she  a  Hindoo, 
To  talk  with  a  silly  boy  out  of  the  window? 
Was  ever  such  profaneness  seen  ? 
Pert  minx  ! — and  only  just  sixteen  !" 
I  have  talked  with  a  fop  who  has  fought  twelve  duels, 
Six  for  an  heiress,  and  six  for  her  jewels ; 


104  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

I  have  prosed  with  a  reckless  bard,  who  rehearses 

Every  day  a  thousand  verses  ; 

But  oh  !   more  marvellous  twenty  times 

Than  the  bully's  lies,  or  the  blockhead's  rhymes, 

Were  the  scurrilous  tales,  which  Scandal  told 

Of  Winifrede's  loves  in  the  days  of  old  ! 


The  Abbess  lifted  up  her  eye, 

And  laid  her  rosarv  down, 
And  sigh'd  a  melancholy  sigh, 

And  frown'd  an  angry  frown. 
"There's  a  cell  in  the  dark  cold  ground, 

Where  sinful  passions  wither  : 
Vapory  dews  lie  damp  around. 
And  merriment  of  sight  or  sound 

Can  work  no  passage  thither  : 
Other  scene  is  there,  \  trow, 
Than  suits  a  love-sick  maiden's  vow  ; 
For  a  death-watch  makes  a  weary  tune, 
And  a  glimmering  lamp  is  a  joyless  moon, 
And  a  couch  of  stone  is  a  dismal  rest, 
And  an  aching  heart  is  a  bitter  guest! 
Maiden  of  the  bosom  light. 
There  shall  thy  dwelling  be  to-night ; 
[Mourn  and  meditate,  fast  and  pray, 
And  drive  the  evil  one  away. 
Axe  and  cord  were  fitter  doom, 
Desolate  grave  and  mouldering  tomb ; 
But  the  merciful  faith  that  speaks  the  sentence, 
Joys  in  the  dawn  of  a  soul's  repentance, 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  105 

And  the  eyes  may  shed  sweet  tears  for  them, 
Whom  the  hands  chastise,  and  the  lips  condemn !" 
I  have  set  my  foot  on  the  hallowed  spot. 
Where  the  dungeon  of  trampled  France  is  not; 
I  have  heard  men  talk  of  Mr.  Peel ; 
I  have  seen  men  walk  on  the  Bixton  wheel ; 
And  'twere  better  to  feed  on  frogs  and  fears, 
Guarded  by  griefs  and  grenadiers, 
And  'twere  better  to  tread  all  day  and  night, 
With  a  rogue  on  the  left,  and  a  rogue  on  the  right, 
Than  lend  our  persons  or  our  purses 
To  that  old  lady's  tender  mercies  ! 

"Ay  !  work  your  will !"  the  young  girl  said  ; 
And  as  she  spoke  she  raised  her  head, 
And  for  a  moment  turned  aside. 

To  check  the  tear  she  could  not  hide ; 

"  Ay  !  work  your  will !  — I  know  you  all. 

Your  holy  aims  and  pious  arts. 
And  how  you  love  to  fling  a  pall 

On  fading  joys,  and  blighted  hearts; 
And  if  these  quivering  lips  could  tell 

The  story  of  our  bliss  and  wo, 
And  how  we  loved — Oh  !  loved,  as  well 

As  ever  mortals  loved  below — 
And  how  in  purity  and  truth 

The  flower  of  early  joy  was  nurst. 
Till  sadness  nipp'd  its  blushing  youth, 

And  holy  mummery  call'd  it  curst 


100  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

You  would  but  Avatch  my  sobs  and  sighs, 

With  shaking  head,  and  silent  sneers. 
And  deck  with  smiles  those  soulless  eyes, 

When  mine  should  swell  with  bitter  tears  ! 
But  work  your  will !     Oh!  life  and  limb 

May  wither  in  that  house  of  dread, 
Where  horrid  shapes  and  shadows  dim 

Walk  nightly  round  the  slumberer's  head ; 
The  sight  may  sink,  the  tongue  may  fail, 

The  shuddering  spirit  long  for  day, 
And  fear  may  make  these  features  pale, 

And  turn  these  boasted  ringlets  gray ; 
But  not  for  this,  oh !  not  for  this. 

The  heart  will  lose  its  dream  of  sladness : 
And  the  fond  thought  of  that  last  kiss 

Will  live  in  toi-ture — yea  !  in  madness  ! 
And  look !     I  will  n9t  fear  or  feel 

The  all  your  hate  may  dare  or  do  ; 
And,  if  I  ever  pray  and  kneel, 

I  will  not  kneel  and  pray  to  you !" 


If  you  had  seen  that  tender  cheek. 

Those  eyes  of  melting  blue. 
You  would  not  have  thought  in  a  thing  so  weak. 

Such  a  fiery  spirit  grew. 
But  the  trees  which  summer's  breezes  shake. 

Are  shivered  in  winter's  gale  ; 
And  a  meek  girl's  heart  will  bear  to  break, 

When  a  proud  man's  truth  would  fail. 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  101 

Never  a  word  she  uttered  more ; 

They  have  led  her  down  the  stair, 
And  left  her  on  the  dungeon  floor, 

To  find  repentance  there ; 
And  naught  have  they  set  beside  her  bed, 

Within  that  chamber  dull, 
But  a  lonely  lamp,  and  a  loaf  of  bread, 

A  rosary  and  skull. 
The  breast  is  bold  that  grows  not  cold, 

With  a  strong  convulsive  twinge, 
As  the  slow  door  creeps  to  its  sullen  hold. 

Upon  its  mouldering  hinge. 
That  door  was  made  by  the  cunning  hand 
Of  an  artist  from  a  foreign  land  ; 
Human  skill  and  heavenly  thunder 
Shall  not  win  its  wards  asunder. 
The  chain  is  fix'd,  and  the  bolt  is  fast, 
And  the  kind  old  Abbess  lingers  last. 
To  mutter  a  prayer  on  her  bended  knee, 
And  clasp  to  her  girdle  the  iron  key. 


But  then,  oh  then  began  to  run 

Horrible  whispers  from  nun  to  nun  : 
"  Sister  Amelia," — "  Sister  Anne," 
"  Do  tell  us  how  it  all  began ;" 
"The  youth  was  a  handsome  youth,  that's  certain, 

For  Bertha  peeped  from  behind  the  curtain :" 
"  As  sure  as  I  have  human  eyes. 

It  was  the  devil  in  disguise ; 


108  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

His  hair  hanging  down  like  threads  of  wire — 
And  his  mouth  breathing  smoke,  like  a  haystack 

on  fire — 
And  the  ground  beneath  his  footstep  rocking," — 

"  Lord  !  Isabel,  how  very  shocking  !" 

"  Poor  Violette  !  she  was  so  merry  ; 
I'm  very  sorry  for  her  ! — very  !" 

"  Well !  it  was  worth  a  silver  tester, 
To  see  how  she  frown'd  when  the  Abbess  bless'd 
her  ;"— 

"  Was  Father  Anselm  there  to  shrive  ? 
For  I'm  sure  she'll  never  come  out  alive !" 

"  Dear  Elgitha,  don't  frighten  us  so  !" 

"  It's  just  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Since  Father  Peter  was  put  in  the  cell 
For  forgetting  to  ring  the  vesper  bell ; 
Let  us  keep  ourselves  from  mortal  sin ! 
He  went  out  as  he  went  in !" 

"  No  !  and  he  lives  there  still,  they  say, 
In  his  cloak  of  black,  and  his  cowl  of  gray, 
Weeping,  and  wailing,  and  walking  about, 
With  an  endless  grief,  and  an  endless  gout, 
And  wiping  his  eyes  with  a  kerchief  of  lawn, 
And  ringing  his  bell  from  dusk  to  dawn  1" 

"  Let  us  pray  to  be  saved  from  love  and  spectres  !"- 

"  From  the  haunted  cell !" — "And  the  abbess's  lec- 
tures !" 
The  garish  sun  has  gone  away, 
And  taken  with  him  the  toils  of  day ; 
Foul  ambition's  hollow  schemes, 
Busy  labor's  golden  dreams, 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  109 

Angry  strife,  and  cold  debate, 

Plodding  care,  and  plotting  hate. 

But  in  the  nunnery  sleep  is  fled 

From  many  a  vigilant  hand  and  head  ; 

A  watch  is  set  of  friars  tall, 

Jerome  and  Joseph,  and  Peter  and  Paul  ; 

And  the  chattering  girls  are  all  lock'd  up ; 

And  the  wrinkled  old  abbess  is  gone  to  sup 

On  mushrooms  and  sweet  muscadel. 

In  the  fallen  one's  deserted  cell. 

And  now  't  is  love's  most  lovely  hour. 

And  silence  sits  on  earth  and  sky, 
And  moonlight  flings  on  turf  and  tower 

A  spell  of  deeper  witchery  ; 
And  in  the  stillness  and  the  shade 
All  things  and  colors  seem  to  fade  : 
And  the  garden  queen,  the  blushing  rose, 
Has  bowed  her  head  in  a  soft  repose  ; 
And  weary  zephyr  is  gone  to  rest 
In  the  flow'ry  grove  he  loves  the  best. 
Nothing  is  heard  but  the  long,  long  snore, 
Solemn  and  sad,  of  the  watchmen  four, 
And  the  voice  of  the  rivulet  rippling  by, 
And  the  nightingale's  evening  melody. 
And  the  drowsy  wing  of  the  sleepless  bat. 
And  the  mew  of  the  gard'ner's  tortoise-shell  cat. 

Dear  cousin  !  a  harp  like  yours  has  power 
Over  tlic.  soul  in  every  hour; 


110  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  after  breakfast,  when  Sir  G. 
Has  been  discussing  news  and  tea, 
And  eulogized  his  coals  and  logs, 
And  told  the  breeding  of  his  dogs, 
And  hurl'd  anathemas  of  pith 
Against  the  sect  of  Adam  Smith, 
And  handed  o'er  to  endless  shame 
The  voters  for  the  sale  of  game, 
'Tis  sweet  to  fly  from  him  and  vapors, 
And  those  interminable  papers. 
And  waste  an  idle  hour  or  two 
With  dear  Eossini,  and  with  you. 

But  those  sweet  sounds  are  doubly  sweet. 

In  the  still  nights  of  June, 
When  song  and  silence  seem  to  meet. 

Beneath  the  quiet  moon  ; 
When  not  a  single  leaf  is  stirr'd, 
By  playful  breeze  or  joyous  bird, 
And  echo  shrinks  as  if  afraid 
Of  the  faint  murmur  she  has  made. 
Oh  !  then  the  spirit  of  music  roves, 
With  a  delicate  step  through  the  myrtle  groves, 
And  still  wherever  he  flits,  he  flings 
A  thousand  charms  from  his  purple  wings. 
And  where  is  that  discourteous  wight, 
Who  would  not  linger  through  the  night 
Listening  ever,  lone  and  mute. 
To  the  murmur  of  his  mistress'  lute. 
And  courting  those  bright  phantasies. 
Which  haunt  the  dreams  of  waking  eyes  ? 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  Ill 

He  came  that  night,  the  Troubadour, 

While  the  four  fat  friars  slept  secure, 

And  gazed  on  the  lamp  that  sweetly  glisten'd, 

"Where  he  thought  his  mistress  listeu'd ; 

Low  and  clear  the  silver  note 

On  the  thrill'd  air  seem'd  to  float ; 

Such  might  be  an  angel's  moan, 

Half  a  whisper,  half  a  tone. 

"  So  glad  a  life  was  never,  love. 

As  that  which  childhood  leads, 
^  Before  it  learns  to  sever,  love. 
The  roses  from  the  weeds : 
When  to  be  very  duteous,  love, 

Is  all  it  has  to  do  ; 
And  every  flower  is  beauteous,  love. 

And  every  folly  true.  -        X*i=— , 

"  And  you  can  still  remember,  love. 

The  buds,  that  decked  our  play. 
Though  destiny's  December,  love, 

Has  whirled  those  buds  away  : 
And  you  can  smile  through  tears,  love, 

And  feel  a  joy  in  pain. 
To  think  upon  those  years,  love, 

You  may  not  see  again. 

"  When  we  mimick'd  the  Friar's  howls,  love, 
Cared  nothing  for  his  creeds. 
Made  bonnets  of  his  cowls,  love. 
And  bracelets  of  his  beads  ; 


112  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  gray-beards  looked  not  awful,  love, 
And  grandames  made  no  din, 

And  vows  were  not  unlawful,  love, 
And  kisses  were  no  sin. 

"  And  do  you  never  dream,  love, 

Of  that  enchanted  well. 
Where  under  the  moon-beam,  love, 

The    fairies  wove  their  spell  1 
How  oft  we  saw  them  greeting,  love, 

Beneath  the  blasted  tree, 
And  heard  their  pale  feet  beating,  love, 

To  their  own  minstrelsy  ! 

"And  do  you  never  think,  love. 

Of  the  shallop,  and  the  wave, 
And  the  willow  on  the  brink,  love, 

Over  the  jJoacher's  grave  ? 
Where  always  in  the  dark,  love, 

We  heard  a  heavy  sigh, 
And  the  dogs  were  wont  to  bark,  love, 

Whenever  they  went  by  1 

"  Then  gaily  shone  the    heaven,  love. 

On  life's  untroubled  sea. 
And  Vidal's  heart  was  given,  love, 

In  happiness  to  thee  ; 
The  sea  is  all  benighted,  love, 

The    heaven  has  ceased  to  shine; 
Theheart^  isseared.„and.  blighted,  love, 

But  still  the  heart  is  thine  !" 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  113 

He  paused  and  looked ;  he  paused  and  sighed ; 
None  appear'd,  and  none  replied : 
All  was  still  but  the  •water's  waW, 
■    And  the  tremulous  voice  of  the  nightingale, 
And  the  insects  buzzing  among  the  briers, 
And  the  nasal  note  of  the  four  fat  friars. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  'tis  passion's  hour ; 

The  world  is  gone  to  sleep ; 
And  nothing  wakes  in  brake  or  bower, 

But  those  who  love  and  weep  : 
This  is  the  golden  time  and  weather, 
"When  songs  and  sighs  go  out  together. 
And  minstrels  pledge  the  rosy  wine 
To  lutes  like  this,  and  lips  like  thine ! 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  my  courser's  flight 

Is  like  the  rushing  breeze. 
And  the  kind  moon  has  said  '  Good  night !' 

And  sunk  behind  the  trees : 
The  lover's  voice — the  loved  one's  ear — 
There's  nothing  else  to  speak  and  hear  ; 
And  we  will  say,  as  on  we  glide, 
That  nothing  lives  on  earth  beside ! 

"Oh  fly  with  me!  and  we  will  wing 
Our  white  skiff*  o'er  the  waves. 
And  hear  the   tritons  revelling, 

Among  their  coral  caves; 
The  envious  mermaid,  when  we  pass. 
Shall  cease  her  song,  anrl  drop  hor  glass; 


114  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

For  it  will  break  her  very  heart, 
To  see  how  fair  and  dear  thou  art. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  and  we  will  dwell 

Far  over  the  green  seas, 
Where  Sadness  rings  no  parting  knell 

For  moments  such  as  these  ! 
Where  Italy's  unclouded  skies 
Look  brightly  down  on  brighter  eyes. 
Or  where  the  wave-wed  city  smiles. 
Enthroned  upon  her  hundred  isles. 

"  Oh  fly  with  me  !  by  these  sweet  strings 

Swept  o'er  by  Passion's  fingers — 
By  all  the  rocks,  and  vales,  and  springs — 

Where  Memory  lives  and  lingers — 
By  all  the  tongue  can  never  tell — 
By  all  the  heart  has  told  so  well — 
By  all  that  has  been  or  may  be — 
And  by  Love's  self — Oh  fly  with  me  !" 

He  paused  again — no  sight  or  sound  ! 
The  still  air  rested  all  around  ; 
He  look'd  to  the  tower,  and  he  look'd  to  the  tree, 
Night  was  as  still  as  night  could  be  ; 
Something  he  mutter'd  of  Prelate  and  Pope 
And  took  from  his  mantle  a  silken  rope ; 
Love  dares  much,  and  Love  climbs  well  ! 
He  stands  by  the  Abbess  in  Violette's  cell. 

He  put  on  a  mask,  and  he  put  out  the  light ; 
The  Abbess  was  dressed  in  a  veil  of  white ; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  115 

Not  a  look  he  gave,  not  a  Avord  he  said ; 
The  pages  are  ready,  the  blanket  is  spread  ; 
He  has  clasped  his  arm  her  waist  about, 
And  lifted  the  screaming  Abbess  out : 
■"  My  horse  is  fleet,  and  my  hand  is  true, 
And  my  Squire  has  a  bow  of  deadly  yew  ; 
Away,  and  away,  over  mountain  and  moor ! 
Good  luck  to  the  love  of  the  gay  Troubadour  !" 

"  What !  rode  away  with  the  Abbess  behind  1 

Lord  !  sister  !  is  the  Devil  blind  1" 
"  Full  fourscore  winters  !" — "  Fast  and  pray  ! 

For  the  powers  of  darkness  fight  to-day  !" 
"  T  sha'nt  get  over  the  shock  for  a  week  !" — 
"  Did  any  one  hear  our  Mother  shriek  V — 
"  Do  shut  your  mouth  !" — "Do  shut  the  cell !" 
"  What  a  villanous,  odious,  sulphury  smell !" 
"  Has  the  Evil  One  taken  the  Mass-book  too  f 
"  Ah  me  !  what  will  poor  little  Violette  do  1 

She  has  but  one  loaf  since  seven  o'clock ; 

And  no  one  can  open  that  horrible  lock  ; 

And  Satan  will  grin  with  a  fiendish  glee, 

When  he  finds  the  Abbess  has  kept  the  key  !" 
"How  shall  we  manage  to  sleep  to-night  f 
"  I  wouldn't  for  worlds  put  out  my  light !" 
"  I'm  sure  I  shall  die  if  I  hear  but  a  mole  stir !" 
"I'll  clap  St.  Ursula  under  my  bolster  !" 

But  oh!  the  pranks  that  Vidal  played. 
When  he  found  what  a  bargain  his  blindness  had 
made ! 


116  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

Wilful  and  wild — half  in  fun,  half  on  fire, 
He  stared  at  the  Abbess,  and  storm'd  at  the  Squire ! 
Consigned  to  perdition  all  silly  romancers, 
Ask'd  twenty  strange  questions,  and  staid  for  no 

answers, 
Raving,  and  roaring,  and  laughing  by  fits, 
And  driving  the  old  woman  out  of  her  wits. 

There  was  a  jousting  at  Chichester  ; 
It  had  made  in  the  country  a  mighty  stir, 
And  all  that  was  brave,  and  all  that  was  fair, 
And  all  that  was  neither,  came  trooping  there ; 
Scarfs  and  scars,  and  frays  and  frowns. 
And  flow'ry  speeches,  and  flow'ry  crowns. 
A  hundred  knights  set  spear  in  rest 
For  the  lady  they  deemed  the  loveliest, 
And  Vidal  broke  a  lance  that  day 
For  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

There  was  a  feast  at  Arundel ; 
The  town-clerk  tolled  a  ponderous  bell. 
And  nothing  was  there  but  row  and  rout, 
And  toil  to  get  in,  and  toil  to  get  out, 
And  sheriffs  fatter  than  their  venison. 
And  belles  that  never  staid  for  benison. 
The  red,  red  wine  was  mantling  there. 
To  the  health  of  the  fairest  of  the  fair. 
And  Vidal  drain'd  the  cup  that  day 
To  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 
There  was  a  wedding  done  at  Bramber ; 
The  town  was  full  of  myrrh  and  amber; 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  117 

And  the  boors  were  roasting  valorous  beeves, 
And  the  boys  were  gathering  myrtle  leaves, 
And  the  bride  was  choosing  her  finest  flounces, 
And  the  bridegroom  was  scattering  coin  by  ounces, 
And  every  stripling  danced  on  the  green 
With  the  girl  he  had  made  his  idol  queen  ; 
And  Vidal  led  the  dance  that  day 
With  the  Abbess  of  St.  Ursula. 

Three  days  had  pass'd  when  the  Abbess  came  back ; 

Her  voice  was  out  of  tune, 
And  her  new  white  veil  was  gone  to  wrack, 

And  so  were  her  sandal  shoon. 
No  word  she  said  ;  they  put  her  to  bed, 
With  a  pain  in  her  heels,  and  a  pain  in  her  head, 
And  she  talk'd  in  her  delirious  fever 

Of  a  high-trotting  horse,  and  black  deceiver ; 
Of  music  and  merriment,  love  and  lances, 
Bridles  and  blasphemy,  dishes  and  dances. 

They  went  with  speed  to  the  dungeon-door ; 

The  air  was  chill  and  damp ; 
And  the  pale  girl  lay  on  the  marble  floor, 

Beside  the  dying  lamp. 
They  kissed  her  lips,  they  called  her  name, 
No  kiss  returned,  no  answer  came ; 
Motionless,  lifeless,  there  she  lay. 
Like  a  statue  rent  from  its  base  away  ! 
They  said  by  famine  she  had  died  : 
Yet  the  bread  untasted  lay  beside  ; 


118  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

And  her  cheek  was  as  full,  and  fresh,  and  fair, 

As  it  had  been  when  warmth  was  there, 

And  her  eyes  were  unclosed,  and  their  glassy  rays 

Were  fixed  in  a  desolate,  dreamy  gaze, 

As  if  before  their  orbs  had  gone 

Some  sight  they  could  not  close  upon  ; 

And  her  bright  brown  locks  all  gray  were  grown ; 

And  her  hands  were  clenched,  and  cold  as  stone ; 

And  the  veins  upon  her  neck  and  brow 

But  she  was  dead  ! — what  boots  it  how  1 

In  holy  ground  she  was  not  laid ; 

For  she  had  died  in  sin, 
And  good  St.  Ursula  forbade 

That  such  should  enter  in  ; 
But  in  a  calm  and  cold  retreat 

They  made  her  place  of  rest, 
And  laid  her  in  her  winding-sheet, 

And  left  her  there  unblest ; 
And  set  a  small  stone  at  her  head. 

Under  a  spreading  tree  ; 
"  Orate^'' — that  was  all  it  said — 
"  Orate  hie  pro  me!" 

And  Vidal  came  at  night,  alone, 

And  tore  his  shining  hair. 
And  laid  him  down  beside  the  stone, 

And  wept  till  day-break  there. 

"  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well, 
Most  beautiful  of  earthly  things. 


THE     TROUBADOUR.  119 

I  will  not  bid  thy  spirit  stay, 
Nor  link  to  earth  those  glittering  wings, 

That  burst  like  light  away ! 

I  know  that  thou  art  gone  to  dwell 
In  the  sunny  home  of  the  fresh  day  beam, 

Before  Decay's  unpitying  tread 
Hath  crept  upon  the  dearest  dream 

That  ever  came  and  fled; 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ; 
And  go  thy  way,  all  pure  and  fair, 

Into  the  starry  firmament; 
And  wander  there  with  the  spirits  of  air, 

As  bright  and  innocent ! 


^'  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
Strange  feet  will  be  upon  thy  clay, 

And  never  stop  to  sigh  or  sorrow ; 
Yet  many  wept  for  thee  to-day. 

And  one  will  weep  to-morrow : 
Alas  !  that  melancholy  knell 
Shall  often  wake  my  wondering  ear. 

And  thou  shalt  greet  me,  for  a  while, 
Too  beautiful  to  make  me  fear, 

Too  sad  to  let  me  smile ! 

Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
I  know  that  heaven  for  thee  is  won  ; 

And  yet  I  feel  I  would  resign 
Whole  ages  of  my  life,  for  on( 

One  little  hour,  of  thine  ! 


120  THE     TROUBADOUR. 

"  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well ! 
See,  I  have  been  to  the  sweetest  bowers, 

And  culled  from  garden  and  from  heath 
The  tenderest  of  all  tender  flowers, 

And  blended  in  my  wreath 

The  violet  and  the  blue  harebell, 
And  one  frail  rose  in  its  earliest  bloom  ; 

Alas  !  I  meant  it  for  thy  hair, 
And  now  I  flhig  it  on  thy  tomb. 

To  weep  and  wither  there  ! 
Fare  ye  well,  fare  ye  well ! 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  love,  in  fragrant  shade, 

Droop,  droop  to-night,  thou  blushing  token ; 
A  fairer  flower  shall  never  fade, 

Nor  a  fonder  heart  be  broken !" 


THE  LEG^END  OF  THE  TEUFEL-IIAUS. 

The  way  was  lone,  and  the  hour  was  late, 

And  Sir  Rudolph  was  far  from  his  castle  gate. 

Tlie  night  carao  down,  by  slow  degrees. 

On  the  river  stream,  and  the  forest-trees  ; 

And  by  the  heat  of  the  heavy  air, 

And  by  the  lightning's  distant  glare, 

And  by  the  rustling  of  the  woods, 

And  by  the  roaring  of  the  floods, 

In  half  an  hour,  a  man  might  say, 

The  Spirit  of  L5torm  would  ride  that  way. 

But  little  he  c.xred,  that  stripling  pale. 

For  the  sinking  sun,  or  the  rising  gale  ; 

For  he,  as  he  rode,  was  dreaming  now, 

Poor  youth,  o.''  a  woman's  broken  vow. 

Of  the  cup  dashed  down,  ere  the  wine  was  tasted. 

Of  eloquent  speeches  sadly  wasted, 

Of  a  gallant  h^art  all  burnt  to  ashes, 

And  the  Baroi  of  Katzberg's  long  mustaches. 

So  the  earth  below,  and  the  heaven  above. 

He  saw  them  not ; — those  dreams  of  love, 

As  some  have  found,  and  some  will  find, 

Make  men  extremely  deaf  and  blind. 

6 


122      THE     LEGEND     OF     THE     TEUFEL-HAU8. 

At  last  he  opened  his  great  blue  eyes, 
And  looking  about  in  vast  surprise, 
Found  that  his  hunter  had  turned  his  back, 
An  hour  ago  on  the  beaten  track. 
And  now  was  threading  a  forest  hoar, 
Where  steed  had  never  stepped  before. 

"  By  Caesar's  head,"  Sir  Rudolph  said, 
"  It  were  a  sorry  joke, 
If  I  to-night  should  make  my  bed 

On  the  turf,  beneath  an  oak ! 
Poor  Roland  reeks  from  head  to  hoof; — 

Now,  for  thy  sake,  good  roan, 
I  would  we  were  beneath  a  roof, 
"Were  it  the  foul  fiend's  own  !" 

Ere  the  tongue  could  rest,  ere  the  lips  could  close. 

The  sound  of  a  listener's  laughter  rose. 

It  was  not  the  scream  of  a  merry  boy 

When  harlequin  waves  his  wand  of  joy  ; 

Nor  the  shout  from  a  serious  curate,  won 

By  a  bending  bishop's  annual  pun  ; 

Nor  the  roar  of  a  Yorkshire  clown ; — oh,  no  ! 

It  was  a  gentle  laugh,  and  low  ; 

Half  uttered,  perhaps,  and  stifled  half, 

A  good  old-gentlemanly  laugh ; 

Such  as  my  uncle  Peter's  are. 

When  he  tells  you  his  tales  of  Dr.  Parr. 

The  rider  looked  to  the  left  and  the  ri^ht. 

With  something  of  marvel,  and  more  of  fright : 


THE     LEGEND     OF     THE     TEUFEL-HAUS.       123 

But  brighter  gleamed  his  anxious  eye, 
When  a  light  shone  out  from  a  hill  hard  by. 
Thither  he  spurred,  as  gay  and  glad 
As  Mrs.  Maquill's  delighted  lad, 
When  he  turns  away  from  the  Pleas  of  the  Crown, 
Or  flings,  with  a  yawn,  old  Saunders  down. 
And  flies,  at  last,  frorh  all  the  mysteries 
Of  Plaintiffs'  and  Defendants'  histories, 
To  make  himself  sublimely  neat, 
For  Mrs.  Camac's  in  Mansfield  Street. 
At  a  lofty  gate  Sir  Rudolph  halted  ; 
Down  from  his  seat  Sir  Rudolph  vaulted  : 
And  he  blew  a  blast  with  might  and  main. 
On  the  bugle  that  hung  by  an  iron  chain. 
The  sound  called  up  a  score  of  sounds ; — 
The  screeching  of  owls,  and  the  baying  of  hounds, 
The  hollow  toll  of  the  turret  bell. 
The  call  of  the  watchful  sentinel, 
And  a  groan  at  last,  like  a  peal  of  thunder. 
As  the  huge  old  portals  rolled  asunder, 
And  gravely  from  the  castle  hall 
Paced  forth  the  white-robed  seneschal. 
He  staved  not  to  ask  of  what  degree 
So  fair  and  famished  a  knight  might  be; 
But  knowing  that  all  untimely  question 
Ruffles  the  temper,  and  mars  the  digestion. 
He  lai<]  his  hand  upon  the  crupper, 
And  said, — "  You're  just  in  time  for  supper!" 

They  led  him  to  the  smoking  board. 
And  j.lafcd  him  next  to  the  castle's  lord. 


124      THE     LEGEND      OF     THE     TEUFEL-HAU8. 

He  looked  around  with  a  hurried  glance : 

You  may  ri^e  from  the  border  to  fair  Penzance, 

And  nowhere,  but  at  Epsom  Races, 

Find  such  a  group  of  ruffian  faces 

As  thronged  that  chamber :  some  were  talking 

Of  feats  of  hunting  and  of  hawking, 

And  some  were  drunk,  and  some  were  dreaming, 

And  some  found  pleasure  in  blaspheming. 

He  thought,  as  he  gazed  on  the  fearful  crew, 

That  the  lamps  that  burned  on  the  walls  burned  blue. 

They  brought  him  a  pasty  of  mighty  size, 

To  cheer  his  heart,  and  to  charm  his  eyes ; 

They  brought  the  wine,  so  rich  and  old, 

And  filled  to  the  brim  the  cup  of  gold ; 

The  knight  looked  down,  and  the  knight  looked  up. 

But  he  carved  not  the  meat,  and  he  drained  not  the  cup.      "jf^T^ 

"  Ho,  ho,"  said  his  host  with  angry  brow, 
"  I  wot  our  guest  is  fine ; 
Our  fare  is  far  too  coarse,  I  trow. 
For  such  nice  taste  as  thine  : 
Yet  trust  me  I  have  cooked  the  food, 

And  I  have  filled  the  can. 
Since  I  have  lived  in  this  old  wood, 
For  many  a  nobler  man." — 
"  The  savory  buck  and  the  ancient  cask 
To  a  weary  man  are  sweet ; 
But  ere  he  taste,  it  is  fit  he  ask 

For  a  blessing  on  bowl  and  meat. 


THE    LEGEND     OF     THE     T  E  U  F  E  L- H  A  tJ  S  .      125 

Let  me  but  pray  for  a  minute's  space, 

And  bid  me  pledge  ye  then  ; 
I  swear  to  ye,  by  our  Lady's  grace, 

I  shall  eat  and  drink  like  ten  !" 


The  lord  of  the  castle  in  wrath  arose, 

He  frowned  like  a  fiery  dragon ; 
Indignantly  he  blew  his  nose, 

And  overturned  the  flagon. 
And,  "Away,"  quoth  he,  "with  the  canting  priest, 
"W  ho  comes  uncalled  to  a  midnight  feast. 
And  breathes  through  a  helmet  his  holy  benison, 
To  sour  my  hock,  and  spoil  my  venison !" 

That  moment  all  the  lights  went  out ; 

And  they  dragged  him  forth,  that  rabble  rout, 

With  oath,  and  threat,  and  foul  scurrility, 

And  every  sort  of  incivility. 

They  barred  the  gates ;  and  the  peal  of  laughter, 

Sudden  and  shrill,  that  followed  after, 

Died  off  into  a  dismal  tone, 

Like  a  parting  spirit's  painful  moan. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Rudolph,  as  he  stood 

On  foot  in  the  deep  and  silent  wood ; 

•'  I  wish,  good  Roland,  rack  and  stable 

May  be  kinder  to-night  than  their  master's  table  !'' 

IJy  this  the  storm   IkkI  fleeted  by  ; 

And  tlic  moon  with  a  quiet  smile  looked  out 
From  the  glowing  arch  of  a  cloudless  sky. 

Flinging  her  silvery  beams  about 


126   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS. 

On  rock,  tree,  wave,  and  gladdening  all 

With  just  as  miscellaneous  bounty, 
As  Isabel's,  whose  sweet  smiles  fall 

hi  half  an  hour  on  half  the  county. 
Less  wild  Sir  Rudolph's  pathway  seemed, 

As  he  turned  from  that  discourteous  tower  ; 
Small  spots  of  verdure  gaily  gleamed 

On  either  side ;  and  many  a  flower, 
Lily,  and  violet,  and  heart's-ease. 

Grew  by  the  way,  a  fragrant  border ; 
And  the  tangled  boughs  of  the  hoary  trees 

Were  twined  in  picturesque  disorder  : 
And  there  came  from  the  grove,  and  there  came  from 
the  hill 

The  loveliest  sounds  he  had  ever  heard. 
The  cheerful  voice  of  the  dancing  rill, 

And  the  sad,  sad  song  of  the  lonely  bird. 

And  at  last  he  stared  with  wondering  eyes, 

As  well  he  might,  on  a  huge  pavilion  : 
'Twas  clothed  with  stuffs  of  a  hundred  dyes, 

Blue,  purple,  orange,  pink,  vermilion ; 
And  there  were  quaint  devices  traced 

All  round  in  the  Saracenic  manner ; 
And  the  top  which  gleamed  like  gold,  was  graced 

With  the  drooping  folds  of  a  silken  banner ; 
And  on  the  poles,  in  silent  pride. 

There  sat  small  doves  of  white  enamel ; 
And  the  vail  from  the  entrance  was  drawn  aside, 

And  flung  on  the  humps  of  a  silver  camel. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS.   127 

In  short  it  was  the  sweetest  thing 

For  a  weary  youth  in  a  wood  to  light  on  ; 
And  finer  far  than  what  a  king 

Built  up,  to  prove  his  taste,  at  Brighton. 
The  gilded  gate  was  all  unbarred  ; 
And,  close  beside  it,  for  a  guard. 
There  lay  two  dwarfs  with  monstrous  noses, 
Both  fost  asleep  upon  some  roses. 
Sir  Rudolph  entered ;  rich  and  bright 
Was  all  that  met  his  ravished  sight ; 
Soft  tapestries  from  far  countries  brought, 
Rare  cabinets  with  gems  inwrought. 
White  vases  of  the  finest  mould. 
And  mirrors  set  in  burnished  gold. 
Upon  a  couch  a  grayhound  slumbered ; 
And  a  small  table  was  encumber'd 
With  paintings,  and  an  ivory  lute, 
And  sweetmeats,  and  delicious  fruit. 
Sir  Rudolph  lost  no  time  in  praising ; 
For  he,  I  should  have  said,  was  gazing, 
In  attitude  extremely  tragic. 
Upon  a  sight  of  stranger  magic ; 
A  sight,  which,  seen  at  such  a  season, 
Might  well  astonish  Mistress  Reason, 
And  scare  Dame  Wisdom  from  her  fences 
Of  rules  and  maxims,  moods  and  tenses. 
Beneath  a  crimson  canopy 

A  lady,  passing  fair,  was  lying; 
Deep  sleep  was  on  her  gentle  eye. 
And  in  her  slumber  she  was  sighing 


128   THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS. 

Bewitching  sighs,  such  sighs  as  say 

Beneath  the  moonlight,  to  a  lover, 
Things  which  the  coward  tongue  by  day 

Would  not,  for  all  the  world,  discover : 
She  lay  like  a  shape  of  sculptured  stone, 
So  pale,  so  tranquil : — she  had  thrown, 

For  the  warm  evening's  sultriness. 
The  broidered  coverlet  aside; 
And  nothing  was  there  to  deck  or  hide 

The  glory  of  her  loveliness. 
But  a  scarf  of  gauze  so  light  and  thin 
You  might  see  beneath  the  dazzling  skin, 
And  watch  the  purple  streamlets  go 
Through  the  valleys  of  white  and  stainless  snow, 
Or  here  and  there  a  wayward  tress 
Which  wandered  out  with  vast  assurance 
From  the  pearls  that  kept  the  rest  in  durance, 
And  fluttered  about,  as  if  'twould  try 
To  lure  a  zephyr  from  the  sky. 

"  Bertha  !" — large  drops  of  anguish  came 

On  Rudolph's  brow,  as  he  breathed  that  name, — 

"  Oh  fair  and  false  one,  wake,  and  fear  ; 

I  the  betrayed,  the  scorned,  am  here." 

The  eye  moved  not  from  its  dull  eclipse, 

The  voice  came  not  from  the  fast-shut  lips ; 

No  matter  !  well  that  gazer  knew 

The  tone  of  bliss,  and  the  eyes  of  blue. 

Sir  Rudolph  hid  his  burning  face 
With  both  his  hands  for  a  minute's  space, 


THE     LEGEND     OFTUE     TEUFEL-HAUS.       129 

And  all  his  frame  in  awful  fashion 
Was  shaken  by  some  sudden  passion. 
What  guiltv  fancies  o'er  him  ran  ? — 

Oh,  Pity  will  be  slow  to  guess  them  ;  -  - 

And  never,  save  to  the  holy  man. 

Did  good  Sir  Rudolph  e'er  confess  them, 
But  soon  his  spirit  you  might  deem 
Came  forth  from  the  shade  of  the  fearful  dream ; 
His  cheek,  though  pale,  was  calm  again, 
And  he  spoke  in  peace,  though  ^e  spoke  in  pain, 

"  Not  mine  !  not  mine  !  now,  Mary  mother, 
Aid  me  the  sinful  hope  to  smother  ! 
Not  mine,  not  mine ! — I  have  loved  thee  long 
Thou  hast  quitted  me  with  grief  and  wrong. 
But  pure  the  heart  of  a  knight  should  be, — 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  thou  art  safe  for  me. 
Yet  shalt  thou  know  by  a  certain  sign, 
Whose  lips  have  been  so  near  to  thine. 
Whose  eyes  have  looked  upon  thy  sleep, 
And  turned  away,  and  longed  to  weep, 
Whose  heart, — mourn, — madden  as  it  will, — 
Has  spared  thee,  and  adored  thee,  still  !" 

His  purple  mantle,  rich  and  wide. 
From  his  neck  the  trembling  youth  untied, 
And  flung  it  o'er  those  dangerous  charms. 
The  swelling  neck,  and  the  rounded  arms. 
Once  more  he  looked,  once  more  he  sighed  ; 
And  away,  away,  from  the  perilous  tent, 

Swifl  as  the  rush  of  an  eaghi's  wing, 

Or  the  flight  of  a  shaft  from  'Jartar  string, 

Into  the  wood  Sir  Ivudolj)!)  went : 

0* 


ISO  THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  TEUFEL-HAUS. 

Not  with  more  joy  the  school-boys  run 

To  the  gay  green  fields,  when  then*  task  is  done ; 

Not  with  more  haste  the  members  fly, 

When  Hume  has  caught  the  Speaker's  eye. 

At  last  the  daylight  came  ;  and  then 
A  score  or  two  of  serving  men. 
Supposing  that  some  sad  disaster 
Had  happened  to  their  lord  and  master, 
Went  out  into  the  wood,  and  found  him, 
Unhorsed,  and  with  no  mantle  round  him. 
Ere  he  could  tell  his  tale  romantic. 
The  leech  pronounced  him  clearly  frantic, 
So  ordered  him  at  once  to  bed. 
And  clapped  a  blister  on  his  head. 

Within  the  sound  of  the  castle-clock 
There  stands  a  huge  and  rugged  rock. 
And  I  have  heard  the  peasants  say, 
That  the  grieving  groom  at  noon  that  day 
Found  gallant  Roland,  cold  and  stiff, 
'At  the  base  of  the  black  and  beetling  clifl'. 

Beside  the  rock  there  is  an  oak. 
Tall,  blasted  by  the  thunder-stroke. 
And  I  have  heard  the  peasants  say. 
That  there  Sir  Rudolph's  mantle  lay. 
And  coiled  in  many  a  deadly  wreath 
A  venomous  serpent  slept  beneath. 


EVERY-DAY  CHARACTERS. 


I.— THE  VICAR. 

Some  years  ago,  ere  Time  and  Taste 

Had  turned  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
"When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy. 
The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 

St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket, 
Was  always  shown  across  the  Green, 

And  guided  to  the  Parson's  wicket. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lisson  lath ; 

Fair  Margaret  in  her  tidy  kirtle. 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-clipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle  : 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlor  steps  collected. 
Wagged  all  their  tails  and  seemed  to  say, 

"  Our  master  knows  you ;  you're  expected!" 


132  THE      VICAR. 

Up  rose  the  Reverend  Dr.  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  Doctor's  "  winsome  marrow ;" 
The  lady  lay  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasped  his  ponderous  Barrow  ; 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed. 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner,  » 

He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed,  v  *>  '^A 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end, 

And  warmed  himself  in  court  or  college, 
He  had  not  gained  an  honest  friend, 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge ; — 
If  he  departed  as  he  came. 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquoi  — 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  Vicarage,  or  the  Vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rock  to  roses : 
It  slipped  from  politics  to  puns : 

It  passed  from  Mahomet  to  Moses : 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine, 
Of  loud  Dissent  the  mortal  teiTor ; 

And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 
He  'stablished  Truth,  or  started  Error. 


THE     VICAR, 


133 


The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep ; 

The  Deist  sighed  with  saving  sorrow  ; 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep, 

And  dreamed  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermon  never  said  or  showed 

That  Earth  is  foul,  that  Heaven  is  gracious. 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius ; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  head  that  penned  and  planned  them, 
For  all  who  understood,  admired, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote,  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses ; 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay. 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses  j 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost. 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban  ; 
And  trifles  for  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothing  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking  ; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking : 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

JTc  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  li.td, 

If  will  not  bf  iiM])rovcd  l.y  Iturning. 


134  THE     VICAR. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnished  cottage, 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit. 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage  : 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 

And  when  his  hand  unbarred  the  shutter, 
The  clammy  lips  of  Fever  smiled 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Caesar  or  of  Venus  : 
From  him  I  learned  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's  cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Quae  genus  ; 
I  used  to  singe  his  powdered  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in ; 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustin. 

Alack  the  change  !  in  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled ; 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook. 

The  trees  1  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled : 
The  church  is  larger  than  before  ; 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry  : 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more : 

And  pews  are  fitted  up  for  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  Vicar's  seat :  you'll  hear 
The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 

Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  tone  is  clear, 
Whose  tone  is  very  Ciceronian. 


QUINCE.  135 


Where  is  the  old  man  laid  ? — look  down, 
And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you, 

Hic  Jacet  GULIELMUS  BROWN, 
ViR  Nulla  non  donandus  laura. 


TI. -QUINCE. 

Fftllentis  semita  vitse. 


Horace. 


Near  a  small  village  in  the  West, 

Where  many  very  worthy  people 
Eat,  drink,  play  whist,  and  do  their  best 

To  guard  from  evil  Church  and  Steeple, 
There  stood — alas  !  it  stands  no  more  ! 

A  tenement  of  brick  and  plaster. 
Of  which,  for  forty  years  and  four, 

My  good  friend  Quince  was  lord  and  master ! 

Welcome  was  he  in  hut  and  hall. 

To  maids  and  matrons,  peers  and  peasants, 
lie  won  the  sympathies  of  all, 

By  making  puns  and  making  presents  ; 
Though  all  the  parish  was  at  strife, 

He  kept  his  counsel  and  his  carriage. 
And  laughed  and  loved  a  fjuiet  life. 

And  shrank  from  Chancery's  suits  and  marriage. 


136  QUINCE. 

Sound  was  his  claret  and  his  head ; 

Warm  were  his  double  ale  and  feelings — 
His  partners  at  the  whist  club  said, 

That  he  was  faultless  in  his  dealings —  \J^fl>y»^/yv--*^'*''"^^ 
He  went  to  church  but  once  a  week  ;  ^\^ 

Yet  Dr.  Poundtext  always  found  him 
An  upright  man,  who  studied  Greek, 

And  liked  to  see  his  friends  around  him. 

Asylums,  hospitals,  and  schools, 

He  used  to  swear  were  made  to  cozen  ; 
All  who  subscribed  to  them  were  fools, 

And  he  subscribed  to  half  a  dozen ; 
It  was  his  doctrine  that  the  poor 

Were  always  able,  never  willing ; 
And  so  the  beggar  at  the  door 

Had  first  abuse,  and  then  a  shilling. 


Some  public  principles  he  had. 

But  was  no  flatterer,  nor  fi-etter  ; 
He  rapped  his  box  when  things  were  bad, 

And  said,  "  I  cannot  make  them  better !" 
And  much  he  loathed  the  patriot's  snort,  a 

And  much  he  scorned  the  placeman's  shuffle, 
And  cut  the  fiercest  quarrels  short. 

With — "Patience,  gentlemen,  and  shuffle." 

A 

For  full  ten  years  his  pointer,  Speed, 

Had  couched  beneath  his  master's  table  ; 
For  twice  ten  years  his  old  white  steed 

Had  fattened  in  his  master's  stable — 


QUINCK.  137 

Old  Quince  averred,  upon  his  troth, 

They,  were  the  ugliest  beasts  in  Devon  ; 

And  none  knew  why  he  fed  them  both. 
With  his  own  hands,  six  days  in   seven. 

Whene'er  they  heard  his  ring  or  knock. 

Quicker  than  thought,  the  village  slatterns 
Flung  down  the  novel,  smoothed  the  frock, 

And  took  up  Mrs.  Glasse,  and  patterns ; 
Adine  was  studying  baker's  bills  ; 

Louisa  looked  the  queen  of  knitters ; 
Jane  happened  to  be  hemming  frills ; 

And  Bell,  by  chance,  was  making  fritters. 

But  all  was  vain  ;  and  while  decay 

Came  like  a  tranquil  moonlight  o'er  him, 
And  found  hlin  gouty  still,  and  gay. 

With  no  fair  nurse  to  bless  or  bore  him  ; 
His  rugged  smile,  and  easy  chair. 

His  dread  of  matrimonial  lectures, 
His  wig,  his  stick,  his  powdered  hair, 

Were  themes  for  very  strange  conjectures. 

Some  sages  thought  the  stars  above  i 

Had  crazed  him  with  excess  of  knowledge ; 
Some  heard  he  had  been  crossed  in  love, 

Bcfijrc  he  came  away  from  college —  v 

Some  darkly  hinted  that  his  Grace 

Did  nothing,  great  or  small,  without  him, 
Some  \vhisp»!rcd  with  a  solemn  face, 

That  there  was  something  odd  about  him  ! 


lo8  QUINCE. 

I  found  him  at  threescore  and  ten 


A  single  man,  but  bent  quite  double, 
Sickness  was  coming  on  him  then, 

To  take  him  from  a  world  of  trouble — 
He  prosed  of  sliding  down  the  hill, 

Discovered  he  grew  older  daily  ; 
One  frosty  day  he  made  his  will — 

The  next  he  sent  for  Dr.  Bailey  ! 

And  so  he  lived — and  so  he  died  : — 
When  last  I  sat  beside  his  pillow. 

He  shook  my  hand — "  Ah  me  !" — he  cried. 
"Penelope  must  wear  the  willow. 

Tell  her  I  hugged  her  rosy  chain 

While  life  was  flickering  in  the  socket : 

And  say,  that  when  I  call  again, 
I'll  bring  a  license  in  my  pocket. 

"  I've  left  my  house  and  grounds  to  Fag — 
(I  hope  his  master's  shoes  will  suit  him ;) 
And  I've  bequeathed  to  you  my  nag. 

To  feed  him  for  my  sake — or  shoot  him. 
The  Vicar's  wife  will  take  old  Fox — 

She'll  find  him  an  uncommon  mouser  ; 
And  let  her  husband  have  my  box, 
My  Bible,  and  my  Assmanshauser. 

Whether  I  ought  to  die  or  not 

My  doctors  cannot  quite  determine  ; 

It's  only  clear  that  I  shall  rot, 

And  be,  like  Priam,  food  for  vermin. 


THE     BELLE     OF     THE     BALL.  139 

My  debts  are  paid  ; — but  Nature's  debt 

Almost  escaped  my  recollection ! 
Tom  !  we  shall  meet  again  ;  and  yet  /j 

I  cannot  leave  you  my  direction !" 


III.— THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL. 

Years — years  ago — ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  and  witty  ; 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes, 

Or  yawn'd  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty  ; 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly  ; 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  a  country  ball ; 

There  when  the  sound  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall, 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing : 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star ; 

And  when  she  danced — oh,  heaven,  her  dancing ! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white  ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender. 
Her  eyes  were  fiill  of  liquid  light; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender ; 


140  THE     BELLE     OF     THE    BALL. 

Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows ; 

I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle, 

I  wondered  where  she  'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talk'd  of  politics  or  prayers ; 

Of  Southey's  prose,  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets ; 
Of  daggers  or  of  dancing  bears. 

Of  battles,  or  the  last  new  bonnets  ; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  matter'd  not  a  tittle. 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke,  (   |     ^ 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little^/^^-^  ^ 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  rpoon, 

I  wrote  them  for  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laughed  ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling ; 
My  father  frown'd ;  but  how  should  gout 

Find  any  happiness  in  kneeling  1 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean, 

Eich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen. 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic  ; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year. 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty  ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 


I 


THE  BELLE   OF  THE  BALL.         141 

But  titles  and  the  three  per  cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations. 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents. 

Oh !  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks, 

Such  wealth,  such  honors,  Cupid  chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks. 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  muses. 

She  sketch'd  ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading  ; 
She  botanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading  ; 
She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand — 

She  made  the  Catalina  jealous  ; 
She  touch'd  the  organ  ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  and  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

Well  fiU'd  with  all  an  album's  glories ; 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimming,  Persian  stories ; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo. 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter ; 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Laboo, 

And  recipes  of  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flatter'd,  worshipp'd,  bored. 

Her  steps  were  watch'd,  her  dress  was  noted. 

Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored. 
Her  sayings  were  fxtremely  quoted. 


142  THE     BELLE      OF     THE     BALL. 

She  laugh'd,  and  every  heart  was  glad, 
As  if  the  taxes  were  abolish'd  ; 

She  fi'own'd,  and  every  look  was  sad, 
As  if  the  opera  were  demolish'd. 

She  sinil'd  on  many  just  for  fun — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it ; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute ; 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded  ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  oh  ! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver ; 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves. 

And  "  Fly  Not  Yet,"  upon  the  river ; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted — months  and  years  roll'd  by  ; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after ; 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh — 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ; 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell, 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room  belle. 

But  only  Mrs. — Something — Rogers.    \ 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  BALLAD : 

TEACHING    HOW    POETRY    IS  BEST    PAID    FOR. 

Non  voglio  ceuto  scudi. — Song. 

Oh  say  not  that  the  minstrel's  art, 

The  pleasant  gift  of  verse, 
Though  his  hopes  decay,  though  his  friends  depart, 

Can  ever  be  a  curse ; — 
Though  sorrow  reign  within  his  heart, 

And  Penury  hold  his  purse. 

Say  not  his  toil  is  profitless ; — 

Though  he  charm  no  rich  relation, 
The  Fairies  all  his  labors  bless 

With  such  remuneration, 
As  Mr.  Hume  would  soon  confess 

Beyond  his  calculation. 

Annuities,  and  three  per  cents, 

Little  cares  he  about  them  ; 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes,  and  rents, 

lie  rambles  on  without  them  : 
But  love,  and  noV>le  sentiments, — 

Oh,  never  bid  him  doubt  them ! 


144  A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD. 

Young  riorice  rose  from  his  humble  bed, 
And  prayed  as  a  good  youth  should ; 

And  forth  he  sped,  with  a  lightsome  tread, 
Into  the  neighboring  wood ; 

He  knew  where  the  berries  were  ripe  and  red, 
And  where  the  old  oak  stood. 

And  as  he  lay  at  the  noon  of  day, 

Beneath  the  ancient  tree, 
A  grayhaired  pilgrim  passed  that  way  ; 

A  holy  man  was  he, 
And  he  was  wending  forth  to  pray 

At  a  shrine  in  a  far  countrie. 

Oh,  his  was  a  weary  wandering, 

And  a  song  or  two  might  cheer  him. 

The  pious  youth  began  to  sing, 

As  the  ancient  man  drew  near  him  ; 

The  lark  was  mute  as  he  touched  the  string. 
And  the  thrush  said,  "Hear  him,  hear  him  !" 

He  sang  high  tales  of  the  martyred  brave ; 

Of  the  good,  and  pure,  and  just ; 
Who  have  gone  into  the  silent  grave. 

In  such  deep  faith  and  trust. 
That  the  hopes  and  thoughts  which  sain  and  save 

Spring  from  their  buried  dust. 

The  fair  of  face,  and  the  stout  of  limb, 

Meek  maids,  and  grandsires  hoary, 
Who  have  sung  on  the  cross  their  rapturous  hymn, 

As  they  passed  to  their  doom  of  glory  ; — 


A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD.  146 

Their  radiant  fame  is  never  dim, 
Nor  their  names  erased  from  story. 

Time  spares  the  stone  where  sleep  the  dead 

With  angels  watching  round  them  ; 
The  mourner's  grief  is  comforted, 

As  he  looks  on  the  chains  that  bound  them ; 
And  peace  is  shed  on  the  murderer's  head, 

And  he  kisses  the  thorns  that  crowned  them. 

Such  tales  he  told ;  and  the  pilgrim  heard 

In  a  trance  of  voiceless  pleasure  ; 
For  the  depths  of  his  inmost  soul  were  stirred, 
By  the  sad  and  solemn  measure  : 
"  I  give  thee  ray  blessing," — was  his  word ; 
"  It  is  all  I  have  of  treasure  !" 


A  little  child  came  bounding  by ; 

And  he,  in  a  fi-agrant  bower, 
Had  found  a  gorgeous  butterfly, 

Rare  spoil  for  a  nursery  dow-er, 
Which,  with  fierce  step,  and  eager  eye, 

He  chased  from  flower  to  flower. 

"  Come  hither,  come  hither,"  'gan  Floricc  call ; 
And  the  urchin  left  his  fun ; 
So  from  the  hall  of  poor  Sir  Paul 

Retreats  the  bafiled  dun  ; 
So  Ellen  parts  from  the  village  ball, 
Where  she  leaves  a  heart  half  won. 


146  A     VKAGMEXT     OF     A     BALLAD. 

Then  Florice  did  the  child  caress, 

And  sang  his  sweetest  songs : 
Their  theme  was  of  the  gentleness 

Which  to  the  soul  belongs, 
Ere  yet  it  knows  the  name  or  dress 

Of  human  rights  and  wrongs. 

And  of  the  wants  which  inake  agree 

All  parts  of  this  vast  plan ; 
How  life  is  in  whate'er  we  see, 

And  only  life  in  man  : — 
What  matter  where  the  less  may  be, 

And  where  the  longer  span  ? 

And  how  the  heart  grows  hard  without 

Soft  Pity's  freshening  dews  ; 
And  how  when  any  life  goes  out 

Some  little  pang  ensues  ; — 
Facts  which  great  soldiers  often  doubt, 

And  wits  who  write  reviews. 

Oh,  Song  hath  power  o'er  Nature's  springs, 
Though  deep  the  nymph  has  laid  them  ! 

The  child  gazed,  gazed,  on  gilded  wings. 
As  the  next  light  breeze  displayed  them ; 

But  he  felt  the  while  that  the  meanest  thinga 
Are  dear  to  him  that  made  them  ! 


The  sun  went  down  behind  the  hill. 
The  breeze  was  growing  colder 


A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD.  147 

But  there  the  minstrel  lingered  still ; 

And  amazed  the  chance  beholder, 
Musing  beside  a  rippling  rill, 

With  a  harp  upon  his  shoulder. 

And  soon,  on  a  graceful  steed  and  tame, 

A  sleek  Arabian  mare. 
The  Lady  Juliana  came. 

Riding  to  take  the  air, 
With  lords  of  fame,  at  whose  proud  name 

A  radical  would  swear. 

The  minstrel  touched  his  lute  again. — 

It  was  more  than  a  Sultan's  crown, 
W^hen  the  lady  checked  her  bridle  rein. 

And  lit  from  her  palfrey  down : — 
What  would  you  give  for  such  a  strain, 

Rees,  Longman.  Orme,  and  Brown  1 

He  sang  of  Beauty's  dazzling  eyes. 

Of  Beauty's  melting  tone  ; 
And  how  her  praise  is  a  richer  prize 

Than  the  gems  of  Persia's  throne  ; 
And  her  love  a  bliss  which  the  coldly  wise 

Have  never,  never  known. 

He  told  how  the  valiant  scoff  at  fear, 

When  the  sob  of  her  grief  is  heard  ; 
How  they  conch  the  spear  for  a  smile  or  tear 

TIow  thf'V  die  fur  a  single  word  ; — 
Things  which,  I  own,  to  me  appear 

Exceedingly  absurd. 


148  A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD. 

The  Lady  soon  had  heard  enough  : 
She  turned  to  hear  Sir  Denys 

Discourse,  in  language  vastly  gruff, 
About  his  skill  at  Tennis ; 

While  smooth  Sir  Guy  described  the  stuff 
His  mistress  wore  at  Venice. 

The  Lady  smiled  one  radiant  smile, 

And  the  Lady  rode  away. — 
There  is  not  a  lady  in  all  our  Isle, 

I  have  heard  a  Poet  say, 
Who  can  listen  more  than  a  little  while 

To  a  poet's  sweetest  lay. 


His  mother's  voice  was  fierce  and  shrill, 

As  she  set  the  milk  and  _  fruit : 
"  Out  on  thine  unrewarded  skill, 

And  on  thy  vagrant  lute ; 
Let  the  strings  be  broken  an  they  will, 

And  the  beggar  lips  be  mute  !" 

Peace,  peace  ! — the  Pilgrim  as  he  went 

Forgot  the  minstrel's  song  ; 
But  the  blessing  that  his  wan  lips  sent 

Will  guard  the  minstrel  long ; 
And  keep  his  spirit  innocent. 

And  turn  his  hand  from  wrong. 

Belike  the  child  had  little  thought 
Of  the  moral  the  minstrel  drew  ; 

But  the  dream  of  a  deed  of  kindness  wrought- 
Brings  it  not  peace  to  you  1 


A     FRAGMENT     OF     A     BALLAD.  149 

And  doth  not  a  lesson  of  virtue  taught 
Teach  him  that  teaches  too  1 

And  if  the  Lady  sighed  no  sigh 

For  the  minstrel  or  his  hymn  ; — 
But  when  he  shall  lie  'neath  the  moonlit  sky, 

Or  lip  the  goblet's  brim, 
What  a  star  in  the  midst  of  memory 

Her  smile  will  be  to  him  ! 


^ 


150  LAMENT      FOR     BOTH  WELL     BRIOO, 


THE  COVENANTER'S  LAMENT  FOR  BOTH- 
WELL  BRIGG. 


The  men  of  sin  prevail ! 
Once  more  the  prince  of  this  world  lifts  his  horn : 
Judah  is  scattered  as  the  chaff  is  borne 

Before  the  stormy  gale. 

Where  are  our  brethren  ?  where  \ \;  • 

The  good  and  true,  the  terrible  and  fleet  ? 
They  whom  we  loved,  with  whom  we  sat  at  meat, 

With  whom  wo  kneeled  in  prayer? 

Mangled  and  marred  they  lie, 
Upon  the  bloody  pillow  of  their  rest : 
Stern  Dalzell  smiles,  and  Clavers  with  a  jest 

Spurs  his  fierce  charger  by. 

So  let  our  foes  rejoice  ; — 
We  to  the  Lord,  who  hears  their  impious  boasts, 
Will  call  for  comfort ;  to  the  God  of  Hosts 

We  will  lift  up  our  voice. 


LAMENT     FOR     BOTHWELL     BRIGG.  151 

Give  ear  unto  our  song  ; 
For  we  are  wandering  o'er  our  native  land, 
As  sheep  that  have  no  shepherd ;  and  the  hand 

Of  wicked  men  is  strong. 

Only  to  thee  we  bow. 
Our  lips  have  drained  the  fury  of  thy  cup ; 
And  the  deep  murmurs  of  our  hearts  go  up 

To  heaven  for  vengeance  now. 

Avenge, — oh,  not  our  years 
Of  pain  and  wrong ;  the  blood  of  martyrs  shed ; 
The  ashes  heaped  upon  the  hoary  head  ; 

The  maiden's  silent  tears ; 

The  babe's  bread  torn  away  ; 
The  harvest  blasted  by  the  war-steed's  hoof ; 
The  red  flame  wreathing  o'er  the  cottage  roof; 

Judge  not  for  these  to-day ! 

Is  not  thine  own  dread  rod 
Mocked  by  the  proud,  thy  holy  book  disdained. 
Thy  name  blasphemed,  thy  temple's  courts  profaned  ? 

Avenge  thyself,  O  God  ! 

Break  Pharaoh's  i ion  crown  ; 
Bind  with  new  chains  their  nobles  and  their  kings ; 
"Wash  from  thy  house  the  blood  of  unclean  things; 

And  liuri  thfir  Dagon  down  ! 

Come  in  thine  own  good  time  ! 
We  will  abide  :  we  have  not  turned  from  thee; 
Though  ill  a  world  of  grief  our  portion  be, 

Of  bitter  grief,  and  crime. 


152  LAMENT     FOR     BOTHWELL     6BIGG. 

Be  thou  our  guard  and  guide  ! 
Forth  from  the  spoiler's  synagogue  we  go, 
That  we  may  worship  where  the  torrents  flow, 

And  where  the  whirlwinds  ride. 

From  lonely  rocks  and  caves 
We  will  pour  forth  our  sacrifice  of  prayer. — 
On,  brethren,  to  the  mountains  !     Seek  we  there 

Safe  temples,  quiet  graves ! 


•I 


HOPE  AND  LOVE. 


OxE  day,  through  fancy's  telescope, 

Which  is  my  richest  treasure, 
I  saw,  dear  Susan,  Love  and  Hope 

Set  out  in  search  of  Pleasure  : 
All  mirth  and  smiles  I  saw  them  go ; 

Each  was  the  other's  banker  ; 
For  Hope  took  up  her  brother's  bow, 

And  Love,  his  sister's  anchor. 

They  rambled  on  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

They  passed  by  cot  and  tower ; 
Through  summer's  glow  and  winter's  chill. 

Through  sunshine  and  through  shower  : 
But  what  did  those  fond  playmates  care 

For  climate,  or  for  weather? 
All  scenes  to  them  were  bright  and  fair, 

On  which  they  gazed  together. 

Sometimes  they  turned  aside  to  bless 

Some  Muse  and  her  wild  numbers, 

Or  breathe  a  dream  of  holiness 

On  IJeauty's  quiet  sluml)er3  ; 

7* 


I' 


154  HOPE     AND     LOVE. 

"  Fly  on,"  said  Wisdom,  with  cold  sneers ; 

"  I  teach  my  friends  to  doubt  you  ;"  i-    y 

"  Come  back,"  said  Age,  with  bitter  tears. 

"  My  heart  is  cold  without  you." 

When  Poverty  beset  their  path, 

And  threatened  to  divide  them. 
They  coaxed  away  the  beldame's  wrath 

Ere  she  had  breath  to  chide  them, 
By  vowing  all  her  rags  were  silk. 

And  all  her  bitters,  honey, 
And  showing  taste  for  bread  and  milk, 

And  utter  scorn  of  money. 

They  met  stern  Danger  in  their  way, 

Upon  a  ruin  seated  ; 
Before  him  kings  had  quaked  that  day, 

And  armies  had  retreated  : 
But  he  was  robed  in  such  a  cloud, 

As  Love  and  Hope  came  near  him. 
That  though  he  thundered  long  and  loud, 

They  did  not  see  or  hear  him. 

A  gray-beard  joined  them.  Time  by  name 

And  Love  was  nearly  crazy. 
To  find  that  he  was  very  lame, 

And  also  very  lazy  : 
Hope,  as  he  listened  to  her  tale. 

Tied  wings  upon  his  jacket ; 
And  then  they  far  outran  the  mail, 

And  far  outsailed  the  packet. 


HOPE     AND     LOVE.  155 

And  so,  when  they  had  safely  passed 

O'er  many  a  land  and  billow, 
Before  a  grave  they  stopped  at  last, 

Beneath  a  weeping  willow  : 
The  moon  upon  the  humble  mound 

Her  softest  light  was  flinging  ; 
And  from  the  thickets  all  around 

Sad  nightingales  were  singing. 

"  I  leave  you  here,"  quoth  Father  Time, 

As  hoarse  as  any  raven  ; 
And  love  kneeled  down  to  spell  the  rhyme 

Upon  the  rude  stone  graven  : 
But  Hope  looked  onward,  calmjy  brave ; 

And  whispered,  "  Dearest  brother, 
We're  parted  on  this  side  the  grave, — 

We'll  meet  upon  the  other." 


PRIVATE  THEATRICALS. 

LADY    ARABELLA   FUSTLAN    TO   LORD    CLARENCE   FUSTIAN. 
-Sweet,  when  Actors  first  appear, 


The  loud  collision  of  applauding  gloves  ! 

MOULTEIE. 

Your  labors,  my  talented  brother, 

Are  happily  over  at  last ; ' 
They  tell  me,  that,  somehow  or  other, 

The  bill  is  rejected, — or  passed  : 
And  now  you'll  be  coming,  I'm  certain, 

As  fast  as  four  posters  can  crawl, 
To  help  us  to  draw  up  our  curtain, 

As  usual,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Arrangements  are  nearly  completed ; 

But  still  we've  a  lover  or  two, 
Whom  Lady  Albina  entreated. 

We'd  keep  at  all  hazards  for  you : 
Sir  Arthur  makes  horrible  faces, — 

Lord  John  is  a  trifle  too  tall, — 
And  yours  are  the  safest  embraces 

To  faint  in,  at  Eustian  Hall. 


PRIVATE     THEATRICALS.  157 

Come,  Clarence  ; — it's  really  enchanting 

To  listen  and  look  at  the  rout : 
We're  all  of  us  puffing,  and  panting, 

And  raving,  and  running  about ; 
Here  Kitty  and  Adelaide  bustle  ; 

There  Andrew  and  Anthony  bawl ; 
Flutes  murmur,  chains  rattle,  robes  rustle. 

In  chorus,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

By  the  bye,  there  are  two  or  three  matters, 

We  want  you  to  bring  us  from  town  ; 
The  Inca's  white  plumes  from  the  hatter's, 

A  nose  and  a  hump  for  the  Clown  : 
We  want  a  few  harps  for  our  banquet. 

We  want  a  few  masks  for  our  ball : 
And  steal  from  your  wise  friend  Bosanquet 

His  white  wig,  for  Fustian  Hall. 

Huncamunca  must  have  a  huge  saber, 

Friar  Tuck  has  forgotten  his  cowl ; 
And  we're  quite  at  a  stand-still  with  Weber, 

For  want  of  a  lizard  and  owl : 
And  then  for  our  funeral  procession, 

Pray  get  us  a  love  of  a  pall ; 
Or  how  shall  we  make  an  impression 

On  feelings,  at  Fustian  Hall  ? 

And,  Clarence,  you'll  really  delight  us. 

If  you'll  do  your  endeavor  to  bring 
From  the  Club  a  young  person  to  write  us 

Our  prologue,  and  that  sort  of  thing ; 


158  PRIVATE     THEATUICALS. 

Poor  Crotchet,  who  did  them  supremely, 
Is  gone,  for  a  judge,  to  Bengal ; 

I  fear  we  shall  miss  him  extremely, 
This  season,  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Come,  Clarence  ; — your  idol  Albina 

Will  make  a  sensation,  I  feel; 
We  all  think  there  never  was  seen  a 

Performer,  so  like  the  O'Neill. 
At  rehearsals,  her  exquisite  fancy 

Has  deeply  affected  us  all ; 
For  one  tear  that  trickles  at  Drury, 

There'll  be  twenty  at  Fustian  Hall. 

Dread  oljjects  are  scattered  before  her, 

On  purpose  to  harrow  her  soul ; 
She  stares,  till  a  deep  spell  comes  o'er  her, 

At  a  knife,  or  a  cross,  or  a  bowl. 
The  sword  never  seems  to  alarm  her, 

That  hangs  on  a  peg  to  the  wall, 
And  she  doats  on  thy  rusty  old  armor, 

Lord  Fustian,  of  Fustian  Hall. 

She  stabbed  a  bright  mirror  this  morning, — 

Poor  Kitty  was  quite  out  of  breath, — 
And  trampled,  in  anger  and  scorning, 

A  bonnet  and  feathers  to  death. 
But  hark, — I've  a  part  in  the  Stranger, — 

There's  the  Prompter's  detestable  call : 
Come,  Clarence, — our  Romeo  and  Ranger, 

We  want  you  at  Fustian  Hall. 


ALEXANDER  AND  DIOGENES. 


Diogenes  Alexandre  roganti  ut  diceret,  Si  quid  opus  esset,  "  nunc 
quidem  pavdlulum,"  inquit,  "a  sole." — Cicero  Tusc.  Disp. 


Sloatlt  the  monarch  turned  aside  : 
But  when  his  glance  of  youthful  pride 
Rested  upon  the  warriors  gray 
Who  bore  his  lance  and  shield  that  day, 
And  the  long  line  of  spears,  that  came 
Through  the  far  grove  like  waves  of  flame, 
His  forehead  burned,  his  pulse  beat  high. 
More  darkly  flashed  his  shifting  eye, 
And  visions  of  the  battle-plain 
Came  bursting  on  his  soul  again. 

The  old  man  drew  his  gaze  away 
Right  gladly  from  that  long  array. 
As  if  their  presence  were  a  blight 
Of  pain  and  sickness  to  his  sight ; 
And  slowly  folding  o'er  his  breast 
The  fragments  of  his  tattered  vest. 
As  was  his  wont,  unasked,  unsought, 
Gave  to  the  winds  his  muttered  thought. 


160  ALEXANDER     AND     DIOGENES.    , 

Naming  no  name  of  friend  or  foe, 
And  reckless  if  they  heard  or  no. 

"  Ay,  go  thy  way,  thou  painted  thing, 
Puppet,  which  mortals  call  a  king, 
Adorning  thee  with  idle  gems. 
With  drapery  and  diadems. 
And  scarcely  guessing,  that  heneath 
The  purple  robe  and  laurel  wreath, 
There's  nothing  but  the  common  slime 
Of  human  clay  and  human  crime ! — 
My  rags  are  not  so  rich, — but  they 
Will  serve  as  well  to  cloak  decay. 

"  And  ever  round  thy  jeweled  brow 
False  slaves  and  falser  friends  will  bow ; 
And  Flattery, — as  varnish  flings 
A  baseness  on  the  brightest  things, — 
Will  make  the  monarch's  deeds  appear 
All  worthless  to  the  monarch's  ear, 
Till  thou  wilt  turn  and  think  that  Fame, 
So  vilely  drest  is  worse  than  shame  ! — 
The  gods  be  thanked  for  all  their  mercies, 
Diogenes  hears  naught  but  curses  ! 

"  And  thou  wilt  banquet ! — air  and  sea 
Will  render  up  their  hoards  for  thee  ; 
And  golden  cups  for  thee  will  hold 
Rich  nectar,  richer  than  the  gold. 
The  cunning  caterer  still  must  share 
The  dainties  which  his  toils  prepare : 


-^ 


ALEXANDER  AND  DIOGENES.       IGl 

The  page's  lip  must  taste  the  wine 
Before  he  fills  the  cup  for  thine ! — 
Wilt  feast  with  me  on  Hecate's  cheer  ? 
1  dread  no  royal  hemlock  here ! 

"  And  night  will  come ;  and  thou  wilt  lie 
Beneath  a  purple  canopy, 
With  lutes  to  lull  thee,  flowers  to  shed 
Their  feverish  fragrance  round  thy  bed, 
A  princess  to  unclasp  thy  crest. — 
A  Spartan  spear  to  guard  thy  rest. — 
Dream,  happy  one  ! — thy  di-eams  will  be 
Of  danger  and  of  perfidy  ; — 
The  Persian  lance, — the  Carian  club  ! — 
I  shall  sleep  sounder  in  my  tub  ! 

"And  thou  wilt  pass  away,  and  have 
A  marble  mountain  o'er  thy  grave, 
With  pillars  tall,  and  chambers  vast, 
Fit  palace  for  the  worm's  repast ! — 
I  too  shall  perish  ! — let  them  call 
The  vulture  to  my  funeral ; 
The  Cynic's  staff,  the  Cynic's  den, 
Are  all  he  leaves  his  fellow  men, — 
Heedless  how  this  corruption  fares, — 
Yea,  heedless  though  it  mix  with  theirs  !" 


UTOPIA. 


-"  I  can  dream,  sir, 


11"  I  eat  well  and  sleep  well." 

The  Mad  Lover. 


If  I  could  scare  the  sun  away, 

No  light  should  ever  shine ; 
If  I  could  bid  the  clouds  obey, 

Thick  darkness  should  be  mine ; 
Where'er  my  weary  footsteps  roam, 

I  hate  whate'er  I  see ; 
And  fancy  builds  a  fairer  home 

In  slumber's  hour  for  me. 

I  had  a  vision  yesternight 

Of  a  fairer  land  than  this, 
Where  Heaven  was  clothed  in  warmth  and  light, 

Where  Earth  was  full  of  bliss  ; 
And  every  tree  was  rich  with  fruits, 

And  every  field  with  flowers. 
And  every  zephyr  wakened  lutes 

In  passion-haunted  bowers. 


UTOPIA.  163 

I  clambered  up  a  lofty  rock, 

And  did  not  find  it  steep  ; 
I  read  through  a  page  and  a  half  of  Locke 

And  did  not  fall  asleep. 
I  said  whate'er  I  may  but  feel, 

I  paid  whate'er  I  owe  ; 
And  I  danced  one  day  an  Irish  reel 

With  the  gout  in  every  toe. 

And  I  was  more  than  six  feet  high, 

And  fortunate  and  wise  ; 
And  I  had  a  voice  of  melody, 

And  beautiful  black  eyes ; 
My  horses  like  the  lightning  went, 

My  barrels  carried  true ; 
And  I  held  my  tongue  at  an  argument, 

And  winning  cards  at  Loo. 


a 


I  saw  an  old  Italian  priest, 
Who  spoke  without  disguise ; 

And  I  dined  Avith  a  Judge,  who  swore,  like  Best, 
All  libels  should  be  lies. 

I  bought  for  a  penny  a  two-penny  loaf 
'*'  Of  wheat,  and  nothing  more  ; 

I  danced  with  a  female  philosopher 
Who  was  not  quite  a  bore. 

There  was  a  crop  of  wheat  which  grew 
Where  plough  was  never  brought; 

There  was  a  nolde  lord  who  knew 
What  he  was  never  taught. 


164  UTOPIA. 

• 

There  was  a  scheme  in  the  gazette 
YoY  a  lottery  without  blanks  ; 

And  a  Parliament  had  lately  met, 
Without  a  single  Bankes. 

And  there  were  Kings  who  never  went 

To  cuffs  for  half  a  crown ; 
And  Lawyers  who  were  eloquent 

Without  a  wig  or  gown  : 
And  Statesmen  who  forebore  to  praise 

Their  gray  hounds  and  their  guns; 
And  Poets  who  deserved  the  bays, 

And  did  not  dread  the  duns ; 

And  Boroughs  were  bought  without  a  test, 

And  no  man  feared  the  Pope ; 
And  the  Irish  cabins  were  all  possessed 

Of  Liberty  and  soap ; 
And  the  Chancellor,  feeling  very  sick, 

Had  just  resigned  the  seals ; 
And  a  clever  little  Catholic 

Was  hea-ring  Scotch  appeals. 

There  was  no  fraud  in  the  penal  code. 

No  dunce  in  the  public  schools, 
No  dust  or  dirt  on  a  private  road, 

No  shame  in  W^ellesley  Pole. 
They  showed  me  a  figurante,  whose  name 

Had  never  known  disgrace ; 
And  a  gentleman  of  spotless  fame. 

With  Mr.  Bochsa's  face. 


UTOPIA.  165 

It  was  an  idle  dream — but  thou, 

Beloved  one  !  ^A'ert  there  ; 
With  thy  dark  clear  eyes  and  beaming  brow, 

White  neck  and  floating  hair  ; 
And  oh  !  I  had  an  honest  heart, 

And  a  house  of  Portland  Stone ; 
And  thou  wert  dear,  as  still  thou  art : 

And  more  than  dear — my  own. 

Oh  bitterness  !  the  morning  broke, 

Alike  for  boor  and  bard  ; 
And  thou  wert  married  when  I  woke. 

And  all  the  rest  were  marred  : 
And  toil  and  trouble,  noise  and  steam, 

Came  back  with  coming  ray, 
And  if  I  thought  the  dead  could  dream, 

I'd  hang  myself  to-day. 


^ 


P  A  L I N  O  D I A . 

Not  mine  this  lesson — but  experience's  which  taught  it  me. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  could  feel 

All  passion's  hopes  and  fears, 
And  tell  what  tongues  can  ne'er  reveal, 

By  smiles,  and  sighs,  and  tears. 
The  days  are  gone  !  no  more  !  no  more, 

The  cruel  fates  allow  ; 
And  though  I'm  hardly  twenty-four, 
I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

Lady,  the  mist  is  on  my  sight. 

The  chill  is  on  my  brow  ; 
My  day  is  night,  my  bloom  is  blight, 
I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

I  never  talk  about  the  clouds, 

I  laugh  at  girls  and  boys; 
I'm  growing  rather  fond  of  crowds, 

And  very  fond  of  noise — 


V 


PALINODIA.  167 

I  never  -wander  forth  alone 

Upon  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
I  weighed  last  winter  sixteen  stone — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

I  never  wish  to  raise  a  veil, 

I  never  raise  a  sigh, 
I  never  tell  a  tender  tale, 

I  never  tell  a  lie  ; 
I  cannot  kneel  as  once  I  did, 

I've  quite  forgot  my  bow, 
I  never  do  as  I  am  bid — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now. 

I  make  strange  blunders  every  day, 

If  I  would  be  gallant — 
Take  smiles  for  wrinkles,  black  for  gray, 

And  nieces  for  their  aunt ; 
I  fly  from  folly,  though  it  flows 

From  lips  of  loveliest  glow  ; 
I  don't  object  to  length  of  nose — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

The  Muse's  steed  is  very  fleet — 

I'd  rather  ride  my  mare  ; 
The  poet  hunts  a  quaint  conceit — 

I'd  rather  hunt  a  hare  ; 
I've  learned  to  utter  yours  and  you, 

Instead  of  thine  and  thou  ; 
And,  oh  !  I  can't  endure  a  blue  I 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 


168  PALINODIA. 

I  don't  encourage  idle  dreams 

Of  poison,  or  of  ropes  ; 
I  cannot  dine  on  airy  schemes, 

I  cannot  sup  on  hopes ! 
New  milk  I  own  is  very  fine, 

Just  foaming  from  the  cow  ; 
But  yet,  I  want  my  pint  of  wine — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

When  Laura  sings  young  hearts  away, 

I'm  deafer  than  the  deep  ; 
When  Leonora  goes  to  play, 

I  sometimes  go  to  sleep  ; 
When  Mary  draws  her  white  gloves  out, 

I  never  dance,  I  vow — 
Too  hot  to  kick  one's  heels  about ! — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 

I'm  busy  now  with  State  atfairs, 

I  prate  of  Pitt  and  Fox ! 
I  ask  the  price  of  railroad  shares, 

I  watch  the  turn  of  stocks. 
And  this  is  life — no  verdure  blooms 

Upon  the  withered  bough  ; 
I  save  a  fortune  in  perfumes — 

I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

I  may  be  yet  what  others  are, 
A  boudoir's  babbling  fool ; 

The  flattered  star  of  bench  and  bar, 
A  party's  chief  or  tool. 


PAtlNODIA.  1B9 

Come  shower  or  sunshine — hope  or  fear, 

The  palace  or  the  plough, 
My  heart  and  lute  are  broken  here — 
I'm  not  a  lover  now  ! 

Lady,  the  mist  is  on  my  sight, 

The  chill  is  on  my  brow. 
My  day  is  night,  my  bloom  is  blight, 
I'm  not  a  lover  now ! 


8 


HOBBLEDEHOYS. 

"  Not  a  man — nor  a  boy — 
But  a  Hobbledehoy."— OW  Sovg. 

Oh,  there  is  a  time,  a  happy  time, 

Wlien  a  boy  is  just  half  a  man  ; 
When  ladies  may  kiss  him  without  a  crime, 

And  flirt  Avitli  him  like  a  .fan  : — 
When  mammas  with  their  daughters  will  leave 
him  alone, 

If  he  only  will  seem  to  fear  them ; 
While  were  he  a  man,  or  a  little  more  grown, 

They  never  would  let  him  near  them. 

These,  Lilly ! — these  were  the  days  when  you 

Were  my  boyhood's  earliest  flame, — 
When  I  thought  it  an  honour  to  tie  your  slioe, 

And  trembled  to  hear  your  name  : — 
When  I  scarcely  ventured  to  take  a  kiss, 

Though  your  lips  seemed  half  to  invite  me  ; 
But,  Lilly !  I  soon  got  over  this, — 

When  I  kissed — and  they  did  not  bite  me! 
[170J 


HOBBLi:i>  i:h  (J  vs.  I'll 

Oh !  these  were  ghidsonie  and  f;ury  times, 

And  our  hearts  were  then  in  their  spring, 
When  I  passed  my  nights  in  writing  you  rhymes, 

And  my  days  in  hearing  you  sing : — 
And  don't  you  remember  your  mother's  dismay 

"When  she  found  in  your  drawer  my  sonnet ; 
And  the  beautiful  verses  I  wrote,  one  day, 

On  the  ribbon  that  hung  from  your  bonnet ! 

And  the  seat  we  made  by  the  fountain's  gush, 

Where  your  task  you  wei-e  wont  to  say, — 
And  how  I  lay  under  the  holly-bush 

Till  your  governess  went  away : — 
And  how,  when  too  long  at  your  task  you  sat, 

Or  whenever  a  kiss  I  wanted, 
I  brayed  hke  an  ass — or  mewed  like  a  cat. 

Till  she  deemed  that  the  place  was  haunted ! 

And  do  you  not,  love,  remember  tlie  days 

When  I  dressed  you  for  the  play, — 
When  I  pinned  your  kerchief,  and  laced  your  stays 

In  the  neatest  and  tidiest  Avay ! — 
And  do  you  forget  the  kiss  j'ou  gave 

Wlien  I  tore  my  hand  with  tlie  pin  ; — 
And  how  you  wondered  men  would  not  shave 

The  beards  from  their  horrible  chin. 

And  do  you  remember  the  garden  wall 

I  climbed  up  every  night, — 
And  the  racket  we  marie  in  the  servant's  hall 

When  the  wind  had  put  out  the  light;  — 


172  HOBBLEDEHOYS. 

When  Sally  got  iip  in  her  petticoat, 
And  John  came  out  in  his  shirt, — 

And  I  silenced  her  vrith  a  guinea-note, 
And  blinded  him  with  a  squirt ! 

And  don't  you  remember  the  horrible  bite 

I  got  from  the  gardener's  bitch, 
When  John  let  her  out  of  the  kennel,  for  spite. 

And  she  seized  me,  crossing  the  ditch  : — 
And  how  you  wept  when  you  saw  my  blood, 

And  numbered  me  with  Love's  martyrs, — 
And  how  you  helped  me  out  of  the  mud. 

By  tying  together  your  garters  ! 

But,  Lilly !  now  I  am  grown  a  man, 

And  those  days  have  all  gone  by, — 
And  Fortune  may  give  me  the  best  she  can. 

And  the  brightest  destiny ; 
But  I  would  give  eveiy  hope  and  joy 

That  my  spirit  may  taste  again. 
That  I  once  more  were  that  gladsome  boy, 

And  that  you  Avere  as  young  as  then. 

Jan.  2ld,  1829. 


TO  A   LADY. 

What  are  you,  lady  ? — naught  is  here 

To  tell  us  of  your  name  or  story  ; 
To  claim  the  gazer's  smile  or  tear, 

To  dub  you  whig,  or  daub  you  tory. 
It  is  beyond  a  poet's  skill, 

To  form  the  slightest  notion,  whether 
We  e'er  shall  walk  through  one  quadrille, 

Or  look  upon  one  moon  together. 

You're  very  pretty  ! — all  the  world 

Are  talking  of  your  bright  brow's  splendor, 
And  of  your  locks,  so  softly  curled. 

And  of  your  hands,  so  white  and  slender : 
Some  think  you're  blooming  in  Bengal ; 

Some  say  you're  blowing  in  the  city  ; 
Some  know  you're  nobody  at  all ; 

I  only  feel,  you're  very  pretty. 

But  bless  my  heart !  it's  very  wrong  : 
You're  making  all  our  belles  ferocious; 

Anne  "never  saw  a  chin  so  long;" 

And  Laura  thinks  your  dress  "  atrocious ;" 


174  TO      A      LADT. 

And  Lady  Jane,  who  now  and  then 

Is  taken  for  the  village  steeple, 
Is  sure  you  can't  be  four  feet  ten, 

And  "  wonders  at  the  taste  of  people." 

Soon  pass  the  praises  of  a  face ; 

Swift  fades  the  very  best  vermilion; 
Fame  rides  a  most  prodigious  pace ; 

Oblivion  follows  on  the  pillion ; 
And  all,  who,  in  these  sultry  rooms. 

To-day  have  stared,  and  pushed,  and  fainted, 
Will  soon  forget  your  pearls  and  plumes. 

As  if  they  never  had  been  painted. 

You'll  be  forgotten — as  old  .debts 

By  persons  who  are  used  to  borrow ; 
Forgotten — as  the  sun  that  sets. 

When  shines  a  new  one  on  the  morrow ; 
Forgotten — like  the  luscious  peach. 

That  blessed  the  school-boy  last  September; 
Forgotten — like  a  maiden  speech, 

Which  all  men  praise,  but  none  remember. 

Yet,  ere  you  sink  into  the  stream, 

That  whelms  alike,  sage,  saint,  and  martyr, 
And  soldier's  sword,  and  minstrel's  theme, 

And  Canning's  wit,  and  Gatton's  charter, 
Plere  of  the  fortunes  of  your  youth 

My  fancy  weaves  her  dim  conjectures. 
Which  have,  perhaps,  as  much  of  truth 

As  Passion's  vows,  or  Cobbett's  lectures. 


TO     A     LADY.  175 

Was't  in  the  north  or  in  the  south, 

That  summer-breezes  rocked  your  cradle? 
And  had  you  in  your  baby  mouth 

A  wooden  or  a  silver  ladle  1 
And  was  your  first,  unconscious  sleep. 

By  Brownie  banned,  or  blessed  by  fairy  ? 
And  did  you  wake  to  laugh  or  weep  1 

And  where  you  christened  Maud  or  Mary  ? 

And  was  your  father  called  "  your  grace  1" 

And  did  he  bet  at  Ascot  races? 
And  did  he  chatter  common-place  ? 

And  did  he  fill  a  score  of  places  ? 
And  did  your  lady-mother's  charms 

Consist  in  picklings,  broilings,  bastings  ? 
Or  did  she  prate  about  the  arms 

Her  brave  forefather  won  at  Hastings  ? 

Where  were  you  "  finished?"  tell  me  where! 

Was  it  at  Chelsea,  or  at  Chiswick? 
Had  you  the  ordinary  share 

Of  books  and  backboard,  harp  and  physic  ? 
And  did  they  bid  you  banish  pride. 

And  mind  your  oriental  tinting? 
And  did  you  learn  how  Dido  died, 

And  who  found  out  the  art  of  printing? 

And  are  you  fond  of  lanes  and  brooks, 

A  votary  of  the  sylvan  muses? 
Or  do  you  con  the  little  liooks 

Which  Baron  Brougham  and  Vaux  diffuses? 


176  TO     A     LADY. 

Or  do  you  love  to  knit  and  sew, 
The  fashionable  world's  Arachne  ? 

Or  do  you  canter  down  the  Row, 
Upon  a  very  long-tailed,  hackney  ? 

And  do  you  love  your  brother  James  1 

And  do  you  pet  his  mares  and  setters'? 
And  have  your  friends  romantic  names  ? 

And  do  you  write  them  long,  long  letters  ? 
And  are  you — since  the  world  began 

All  women  are — a  little  spiteful  1 
And  don't  you  dote  on  Malibran  ? 

And  don't  you  think  Tom  Moore  delightful  ? 

I  see  they've  brought  you  flowers  to-day, 

Delicious  food  for  eyes  "and  noses  ; 
But  carelessly  you  turn  away 

From  all  the  pinks,  and  all  the  roses; 
Say,  is  that  fond  look  sent  in  search 

Of  one  whose  look  as  fondly  answers  1 
And  is  he,  fairest,  in  the  church, 

Or  is  he — aint  he — in  the  Lancers? 

And  is  your  love  a  motley  page 

Of  black  and  white,  half  joy,  half  sorrow? 
Are  you  to  wait  till  you're  of  age  1 

Or  are  you  to  be  his  to-morrow  1 
Or  do  they  bid  you,  in  their  scorn. 

Your  pure  and  sinless  flame  to  smother? 
Is  he  so  very  meanly  born? 

Or  are  you  married  to  another  ? 


TO     A     LADY.  177 

Whate'er  you  are,  at  last,  adieu ! 

I  think  it  is  your  bounden  duty 
To  let  the  rhymes  I  coin  for  you, 

Be  prized  by  all  who  prize  your  beauty. 
From  you  I  seek  nor  gold  nor  fame ; 

From  you  I  fear  no  cruel  strictures; 
I  wish  some  girls  that  I  could  name 

Were  half  as  silent  as  their  pictures ! 


&'■ 


CONFESSIONS. 

FROM    THE    MANUSCRIPT    OF    A    SEXAGENARIAN. 

In  youth,  when  pen  and  fingers  first 

Coined  rhymes  for  all  who  choose  to  seek  'em, 
Ere  Im-ing  hope's  gay  bubbles  burst, 

Or  Chitty  was  my  vade  mecum, 
Ere  years  had  charactered  my  brow 

With  the  deep  lines,  that' well  become  it, 
Or  told  me  that  warm  hairts  could  grow 

Cold  as  Mont  Blanc's  snow-covered  summit. 

When  my  slow  step  and  solemn  swing 

Were  steadier  and  somewhat  brisker. 
When  velvet  collars  were  "  the  thing," 

And  long  befijre  I  wore  a  whisker. 
Ere  I  had  measured  six  feet  two. 

Or  bought  Havanas  by  the  dozen, 
I  fell  in  love — as  many  do — 

She  was  an  angel — hem — my  cousin. 

Sometimes  my  eye,  its  furtive  glance 

Cast  back  on  memory's  short-hand  record; 

I  wonder — if  by  any  chance 

Life's  future  page  will  be  so  checkered ! 


CONFESSIONS.  179 

My  angel  cousin  !— ah  !  her  form — 

Her  lofty  brow — her  curls  of  raven, 
Eyes  darker  than  the  thunder  storm, 

Its  lightnings  flashing  from  their  heaven. 

Her  lip  with  music  eloquent 

As  her  own  grand  upright  piano ; 
No — never  yet  was  peri  lent 

To  earth  like  thee,  sweet  Adriana. 
I  may  not — dare  not — call  to  mind 

The  joys  that  once  my  breast  elated, 
Though  yet,  methinks,  the  morning  wind 

Sweeps  o'er  my  ear,  with  thy  tones  freighted; 

And  then  I  pause,  and  turn  aside 

From  pleasure's  throng  of  pangless-hearted, 
To  weep  !  No.     Sentiment  and  pride 

Are  by  each  other  always  thwarted  ! 
I  press  my  hand  upon  my  brow. 

To  still  the  throbbing  pulse  that  heaves  it, 
Recall  my  boyhood's  faltered  vow, 

And  marvel — if  she  still  believes  it. 

But  she  is  woman — and  her  heart, 

Like  her  tiara's  brightest  jewel, 
Cold — hard — till  kindled  by  some  art. 

Then  quenchless  burns — itself  its  fuel — 
Su  poets  say.     Well,  let  it  pass, 

And  those  who  list  may  yield  it  credit; 
But  as  for  constancy,  alas ! 

I've  never  known — I've  only  read  it. 


180  CONFESSIONS. 

Love  !  'tis  a  roving  fire,  at  most 

The  cuerpo  santa  of  life's  ocean ; 
Now  flashing  through  the  storm,  now  lost— - 

Who  trust,  'tis  said,  rue  their  devotion. 
It  may  be,  'tis  a  mooted  creed — 

I  have  my  doubts,  and  it — ^believers, 
Though  one  is  faithless — wh%re's  the  need 

Of  shunning  all — as  gay  deceivers  ? 

I  said  I  loved.     I  did.     But  ours 

Was  felt,  not  growled  hysena  fashion  ! 
We  wandered  not  at  moonlight  hours. 

Some  dignity  restrained  the  passion  ! 
We  loved — I  never  stooped  to  woo ; 

We  met — I  always  doffed  my  beaver ; 
She  smiled  a  careless  "  How  di'ye  do  ? — 

Good  morning,  sir ;" — I  rose  to  leave  her. 

She  loved — she  never  told  me  so : 


I  never  asked — I  could  not  doubt  it 


For  there  were  signs  on  cheek  and  brow ; 

And  asking !     Love  is  known  without  it ! 
'Twas  understood — we  were  content, 

And  rode,  and  sung,  and  waltzed  together ! 
Alone,  without  embarrassment 

We  talked  of  something — not  the  weather! 

Time  rolled  along — the  parting  hour 

With  arrowy  speed  brought  its  distresses, 

A  kiss — a  miniature — a  flower — 
A  ringlet  from  those  raven  tresses ; 


CONFESSIONS.  181 

And  the  tears  that  would  unbidden  start, 
(An  hour,  perhaps,  and  they  had  perished,) 

In  tlie  far  chambers  of  my  heart, 

I  swore  her  image  should  be  cherished. 

I've  looked  on  peril — it  has  glared 

In  fashionable  forms  upon  me. 
From  leveled  aiiii — from  weapon  bared — 

And  doctors  three  attending  on  me  ! 
But  never  did  my  sternness  wane 

At  pang  by  shot  or  steel  imparted. 
I'd  not  recall  that  hour  of  pain 

For  years  of  bliss — it  passed — we  parted. 

We  parted — though  her  tear-gemmed  cheeks, 

Her  heaving  breast  had  thus  unmanned  me — 
She  quite  forgot  me  in  three  weeks  ! 

And  other  beauties  soon  trepanned  me. 
We  met — and  did  not  find  it  hard 

Joy's  overwhelming  tide  to  smother — 
There  was  a  "  Mrs."  on  her  card, 

And  I was  married  to  another  ! 


SYBIL'S    LETTER. 

"  This  note  was  written  upon  gilt-edged  paper, 
With  a  neat  little  crow-quill,  slight  and  new ; 
Her  small  white  hand  could  hardly  reach  the  taper, 

It  trembled  as  magnetic  needles  do, — 
And  yet  she  did  not  let  a  tear  escape  her. — 

The  seal,  a  sunflower — '  Elle  vous  suit  partout,' 
The  motto,  cut  upon  a  white  cornelian, — 
The  wax  was  superfine, — its  hue  vermilion." 

Bi/ron. 

Since  thou  hast  left  me,  Youth  is  goue, — 
Life  flowing,  like  a  stream,  away; 

And.  feelings  turned  almost  to  stone, — 
And  hearts  becoming  cold  as  clay  ; 

And  thou  liast  almost  ceased  to  be 

Aught,  save  a  dreamlike  form,  to  me. 

Yet  oft  at  evening,  'mid  the  still 

And  silent  music  of  my  heart, 
I  hear  a  voice — I  feel  a  thrill — 

A  sound  that  comes,  and  will  not  part — 
A  long,  low  murmuring — it  should  be 
Thy  Spirit's  shadow  over  me. 

[182] 


.SYBIL'S    LETTER.  183 

And  then  a  dark,  pervading  sense 

Of  something  near — yet  still  removed — 

A  ^vWd.  creation, — so  intense, — 

Of  sometliiug  long  since  seen,  and  loved, — 

A  strancce  revival  of  some  scene 

That  scarce  could  be — yet  must  have  been. 

Such — such  has  absence  made  thee  now, 
And  if  thou  glad'st  not  soon  my  eye, 

Oh,  even  this  will  fainter  grow, 
Till  Reason  fade  with  Memory, 

And  my  lost  heart  become  a  cell. 

Where  nought  but  shapeless  thoughts  shall  dwell. 

There  was  a  time,  when,  for  one  hour. 
In  childhood,  we  were  doomed  to  part, 

But  when  you  grew  a  man,  you  swore 
They  should  not  sever  heart  from  heart ; 

The  spring  of  youth  has  left  my  brow. 

Autumn  is  here — and  where  art  thou  ? 

And  then  you  told  me  we  should  tread 
Sweet  foreign  shores  and  climes  together; 

And  press  the  wild  flowers  for  a  bed. 
And  make  a  pillow  of  the  heather ; 

Oh,  on  a  foreign  shore  I've  slept — 

Dreamed — turned  to  find  thee — Avoke  and  wept. 

Then,  too,  when  pleasure  grew  to  tears, 
And  music's  spell  was  round  us  stealing. 

You  said  those  songs,  in  after  years, 

Should  wake  a  deeper,  holier  feeling; — 


184  sybil's  letter. 

Oh,  I  have  sung  them  oft  and  long, 
Till  weeping  choked  the  tone  and  song. 

Thy  pledge — the  broken  piece  of  gold 
Thou  bad'st  that  I  should  wear,  until 

Thy  memory,  or  my  heart,  grew  cold, 
Rests  on  it  now,  with  icy  chill ; 

Come  back — come  back — if  biit  to  see 

How  I  have  kept  my  faith  to  thee  I 


OUR   BALL, 


"Comment !  c'estlui?  que  le  je  rcfrnrds  encore! — c'est  que  vm- 
ment  il  est  bien  change ;  n'est  ce  pas,  mon  papa  ?" 

Les  Pkemiers  Amours. 


You'll  come  to  our  Lall ; — since  we  parted, 

I've  thought  of  you  more  than  I'll  say  ; 
Indeed  I  was  half  broken-hearted 

For  a  week,  when  they  took  you  away. 
Fond  fancy  brought  back  to  my  slumbers 

Our  walks  on  the  Ness  and  the  Den, 
And  echoed  the  musical  numbers 

Which  you  used  to  sing  to  me  then. 
I  know  the  romance,  since  it's  over, 

'Twere  idle,  or  worse,  to  recall  ; — 
I  know  you're  a  terrible  I'os'er  ; 

But,  Clarence,  you'll  come  to  our  Ball  ! 

It's  only  a  year  since,  at  College, 

You  put  on  your  cap  and  your  gown ; 

But,  Clarence,  you've  grown  out  of  knowledge, 
And  cliauycd  iVuiii  tlu'  s|iui'  lo  lliv.  crown; 


186  OUR     BALL. 

The  voice  that  was  best  when  it  faltered, 

Is  fuller  and  firmer  in  tone  : 
And  the  smile  that  should  never  have  altered, — 

Dear  Clarence  ; — it  is  not  your  own  ; 
Your  cravat  was  badly  selected, 

Your  coat  don't  become  you  at  all ; 
And  why  is  your  hair  so  neglected  ? 

You  must  have  it  curled  for  our  Ball. 

I've  often  been  out  upon  Haldon 

To  look  for  a  covey  with  Pup ; 
I've  often  been  over  to  Shaldon, 

To  see  how  your  boat  is  laid  up. 
In  spite  of  the  terrors  of  Aunty, 

I've  ridden  the  filly  you-broke; 
And  I've  studied  your  sweet  little  Dante 

In  the  shade  of  your  favorite  oak: 
When  I  sat  in  July  to  Sir  Lawrence, 

I  sat  in  your  love  of  a  shawl ; 
And  I'll  wear  what  you  brought  me  from  Florence, 

Perhaps,  if  you'll  come  to  our  Ball. 

You'll  find  us  all  changed  since  you  vanished  ; 

We've  set  up  a  National  School ; 
And  waltzing  is  utterly  banished ; 

And  Ellen  has  married  a  fool ; 
The  Major  is  going  to  travel ; 

Miss  Hyacinth  threatens  a  rout ; 
The  walk  is  laid  down  with  fresh  gravel; 

Papa  is  laid  up  with  the  gout : 


OUR     BALL,  187 

And  Jane  has  gone  on  with  her  easels, 
And  Anne  has  gone  off  with  Sir  Paul ; 

And  Fanny  is  sick  with  the  measles, —  < 
And  I'll  tell  you  the  rest  at  the  Ball. 

You'll  meet  all  your  beauties  ; — the  Lily 

And  the  Fairy  of  Willowbrook  Farm, 
And  Lucy,  who  made  me  so  silly 

At  Dawlish,  by  taking  your  arm  ; 
Miss  Manners,  who  always  abused  you, 

For  talking  so  much  about  Hock; 
And  her  sister  who  often  amused  you. 

By  raving  of  rebels  and  Rock  ; 
And  something  which  surely  would  answer, 

An  heiress  quite  fresh  from  Bengal  ; — 
So,  though  you  were  seldom  a  dancer. 

You'll  dance,  just  for  once,  at  our  Ball. 

But  out  on  the  world ! — from  the  llowers 

It  shuts  out  the  sunshine  of  truth ; 
It  blights  the  green  leaves  in  the  bowers, 

It  makes  an  old  age  of  our  youth  : 
And  the  flow  of  our  feeling,  once  in  it. 

Like  a  streamlet  beginning  to  freeze, 
Though  it  cannot  turn  ice  in  a  minute, 

Grows  harder  by  sudden  degrees. 
Time  treads  o'er  the  graves  of  affection  j 

Sweet  honey  is  turned  into  gall ; 
Perhaps  you  have  no  recollection 

That  ever  you  danced  at  our  Ball. 


188  OUR     BALL. 

You  once  could  be  pleased  with  our  ballads  ;— 

To-day  you  have  critical  ears  ; 
You  once  could  be  charmed  with  our  salads ; 

Alas  !  you've  been  dining  with  Peers  ; 
You  trifled  and  flirted  with  many  ; 

You've  forgotten  the  when  and  the  how  ; 
There  was  one  you  liked  better  than  any  ; 

Perhaps  you've  forgotten  her  now. 
But  of  those  you  remember  most  newly, 

Of  those  who  delight  or  enthral, 
None  love  you  a  quarter  so  truly 

As  some  you  will  find  at  our  Ball. 

They  tell  me  you've  many  who  flatter. 

Because  of  your  wit  gnd  your  song ; 
They  tell  me  (and  what  does  it  matter?) 

You  like  to  be  praised  by  the  throng  : 
They  tell  me  you're  shadowed  with  laurel, 

They  tell  me  you're  loved  by  a  Blue ; 
They  tell  me  you're  sadly  immoral — 

Dear  Clarence,  that  cannot  be  true  ! 
But  to  me  you  are  still  what  I  found  you 

Before  you  grew  clever  and  tall ; 
And  you'll  think  of  the  spell  that  once  bound  you  : 

And  you'll  come,  won't  you  come  ?  to  our  Ball  ? 


MY  PARTNER. 


"  There  is,  perhaps,  no  subject  of  more  universal  interest  in  the 
whole  range  of  natural  knowledge,  than  that  of  the  unceasing  fluctua- 
tions which  take  place  in  the  atmosphere  in  which  we  are  immersed." 


At  Cheltenham,  where  one  drinks  one's  fill 

Of  folly  and  cold  water, 
I  danced,  last  year,  my  first  quadrille, 

With  old  Sir  Geoffrey's  daughter. 
Her  cheek  with  summer's  rose  might  vie, 

When  summer's  rose  is  newest ; 
Her  eyes  were  blue  as  autumn's  sky. 

When  autumn's  sky  is  bluest ; 
And  woll  rny  heart  might  deem  her  one 

Of  life's  most  precious  flowers, 
For  half  her  thoughts  were  of  its  sun, 

And  half  were  of  its  showers. 

I  spoke  of  novels  : — "  Vivian  Grey" 

Was  positively  charming, 
And  "  Almack's"  infinitely  gay. 

And  "  Frankenstein"  alarming  ; 


190  MY     PARTNER. 

1  said  "  De  Vere"  was  chastely  told, 

Thought  well  of  "  HerberL  Lacy," 
Called  Mr.  Banim's  sketches  "  bold," 

And  Lady  Morgan's  "  racy  ;" 
I  vowed  the  last  new  thing  of  Hook's 

Was  vastly  entertaining ; 
And  Laura  said — "  I  dote  on  books, 

Because  it's  always  raining  !" 

I  talked  of  music's  gorgeous  fane, 

I  raved  about  Rossini, 
Hoped  Ronzo  would  come  back  again, 

And  criticised  Pacini ; 
I  wished  the  chorus  singers  dumb, 

The  trumpets  more  pacific. 
And  eulogised  Brocard's  a  plomb, 

And  voted  Paul  "  terrific," 
What  cared  she  for  Medea's  pride 

Or  Desdemona's  sorrow  1 
"  Alas  !"  my  beauteous  listener  sighed, 

"  We  must  have  storms  to-morrow  !" 

I  told  her  tales  of  other  lands ; 

Of  ever-boiling  fountains. 
Of  poisonous  lakes,  and  barren  sands, 

Vast  forests,  trackless  mountains  : 
I  painted  bright  Italian  skies, 

I  lauded  Persian  Roses, 
Coined  similes  for  Spanish  eyes, 

And  jests  for  Indian  noses ; 


MY      PARTNER.  191 

I  laughed  at  Lisbon's  love  of  mass, 

And  Vienna's  dread  of  treason ; 
And  Laura  asked  me  where  the  glass 

Stood  at  Madrid  last  season. 

I  broached  whate'er  had  gone  its  rounds, 

The  week  before,  of  scandal ; 
What  made  Sir  Luke  lay  down  his  hounds, 

And  Jane  take  up  her  Handel  ; 
Why  Julia  walked  upon  the  heath, 

With  the  pale  moon  above  her  ; 
Where  Flora  lost  her  false  front  teeth, 

And  Anne  her  falser  lover  ; 
How  Lord  de  B.  and  Mrs.  L. 

Had  crossed  the  sea  together  ; 
My  shuddering  partner  cried — "  Oh,  Ceil ' 

How  could  they  in  such  weather  V 

Was  she  a  blue  ? — I  put  my  trust 

In  strata,  petals,  gases; 
A  boudoir  pedant  1 — I  discussed 

The  toga  and  the  fasces ; 
A  cockney-muse  1 — I  mouthed  a  deal 

Of  folly  from  "  Endymion  ;" 
A  saint  1 — I  praised  the  pious  zeal 

Of  Messrs.  Way  and  Simeon  ; 
A  politician  1 — It  was  vain 

To  quote  the  morning  paper  ; 
The  horrid  pliantoms  come  again, 

Rain,  hail,  and  snow,  ami  vapor. 


192  MY      PARTNER. 

Flat  flattery  was  my  only  chance, 

I  acted  deep  devotion, 
Found  magic  in  her  every  glance, 

Grace  in  her  every  motion  ; 
I  wasted  all  a  strijjling's  lore. 

Prayer,  passion,  folly,  feeling. 
And  wildly  looked  upon  the  floor, 

And  wildly  on  the  ceiling  ; 
I  envied  gloves  upon  her  arm, 

And  shawls  upon  her  shoulder ; 
And  when  my  worship  was  most  warm, 

She  "  never  found  it  colder." 

I  don't  object  to  wealth  or  land  ; 

And  she  will  have  the  giving 
Of  au  extremely  pretty  hand, 

Some  thousands,  and  a  living. 
She  makes  silk  purses,  broiders  stools, 

Sings  sweetly,  dances  finely, 
Paints  screens,  subscribes  to  Sunday  schools, 

And  sits  a  horse  divinely. 
But  to  be  linked  for  life  to  her ! 

The  desperate  man  who  tried  it, 
Might  marry  a  barometer, 

And  hang  himself  beside  it ! 


LETTEE  FEOM 


MISS  AMELIA  JANE  MORTIMEE,  LONDON, 


TO    SIR    HENRY   CLIFFORD,    PARTS. 

Dear  Harry  you  owe  me  a  letter — 

Nay.  I  really  believe  it  is  two  ; 
But  I  make  you  still  farther  my  debtor — 

I  send  you  this  brief  billet-doux. 
The  shock  was  so  great  when  we  parted, 

I  can't  overcome  my  regret : 
At  first  I  was  quite  broken-hearted, 

And  have  never  recovered  it  yet ! 

I  have  scarcely  been  out  to  a  party, 
But  have  sent  an  excuse,  or  been  ill  ; 

I  have  played  but  three  times  at  ecarte, 
And  danced  but  a  single  quadrille ; 

And  then  I  was  sad,  for  my  heart  ne'er 
One  moment  ceased  thinking  of  thee — 

I'd  a  handsome  young  man  for  a  partner, 

And  a  handsomer  still  vis-a-vis. 
9 


194  LETTER     FROM     MISS     MORTIMER. 

But  I  had  such  a  pain  in  my  forehead, 

And  felt  so  ennuied  and  so  tired, 
I  must  have  looked  perfectly  horrid — 

Yet  they  say  I  was  really  admired  ! 
You'll  smile — but  mamma  heard  a  lancer, 

As  he  whispered  his  friend,  and  said  he, 
"  The  best  and  most  beautiful  dancer 

Is  the  lady  in  white" — meaning  me  ! 

I've  been  once  to  Lord  Dorival's  soirees. 

Whose  daughter  in  music  excels — 
Do  they  still  wear  the  silk  they  call  moirees? 

They  will  know  if  you  ask  at  Pardel's — 
She  begged  me  to  join  m  a  duett, 

But  the  melody  died  on  my  tongue ; 
And  I  thought  I  should  never  get  through  it, 

It  was  one  we  so  often  have  sung. 

In  your  last  you  desire  me  to  mention 

The  news  of  the  court  and  the  town; 
But  there's  nothing  now  worth  your  attention, 

Or  deserving  of  my  noting  down. 
They  say  things  are  bad  in  the  city. 

And  pa  thinks  they'll  only  get  worse  ; 
And  they  say  new  bonnets  are  pretty. 

But  I  think  them  quite  the  reverse. 

Lady  Black  has  brought  out  her  three  daughters, 

Good  figures  but  timid  and  shy ; 
Mrs.  White's  gone  to  Bath  for  the  waters. 

And  the  doctors  declare  she  will  die. 


LETTER     FROM      MISS     MORTIMER.  195 

It's  all  off  'twixt  Miss  Brown  and  Sir  Stephen, 

He  found  they  could  never  agree ; 
Her  temper's  so  very  uneven, 

I  always  said  how  it  would  be. 

The  Miss  Whites  are  grown  very  fine  creatures, 

Though  they  look  rather  large  in  a  room ; 
Miss  Gray  is  gone  off  in  her  features, 

Miss  Green  has  gone  off — with  her  groom ! 
Lord  Littleford's  dead,  and  that  noodle 

His  son  has  succeeded  his  sire ; 
And  her  Ladyship's  lost  the  fine  poodle, 

That  you  and  I  used  to  admire. 

Little  Joe  is  advancing  in  knowledge, 

He  begs  me  to  send  his  regard, 
And  Charles  goes  on  Monday  to  college. 

But  mamma  thinks  he  studies  too  hard. 
We  are  losing  our  man-cook,  he  marries 

My  French  femme  de  chambre,  Baptiste  j 
Pa  wishes  you'd  send  one  from  Paris, 

But  he  must  be  a  first  rate  artiste. 

I  don't  like  my  last  new  piano, 

Its  tones  are  so  terribly  sharp ; 
I  think  I  must  give  it  to  Anna, 

And  get  pa  to  buy  me  a  harp. 
Little  Gerald  is  growing  quite  mannish, 

He  was  smoking  just  now  a  cigar! 
And  I'mi  lugging  hard  at  the  Spanish, 

And  Lucy  has  learned  the  guitar. 


196  LETTER      FROM     MISS     MORTIMER. 

I  suppose  you  can  talk  like  an  artist, 

Of  statues,  busts,  paintings,  virtu  ; 
But  pray,  love,  don't  turn  Bonapartist, 

Pa  will  never  consent  if  you  do ! 
"  You  were  born,"  he  will  say,  "  Sir,  a  Briton," 

But  forgive  me  so  foolish  a  fear ; 
If  I  thought  you  could  blame  what  I've  written, 

I  would  soon  wash  it  out  with  a  tear  ! 

I  pray,  sir,  how  like  you  the  ladies. 

Since  you've  quitted  the  land  of  your  birth? 
I  have  heard  the  dark  donnas  of  Cadiz 

Are  the  loveliest  women  on  earth. 
The  Italians  are  lively  and  witty. 

But  I  ne'er  could  their  manners  endure  ; 
Nor  do  I  think  French  women  pretty, 

Though  they  have  a  most  charming  iournure  / 

I  was  told  you  were  flirting  at  Calais, 

And  next  were  intriguing  at  Eome  ; 
But  I  smiled  at  their  impotent  malice. 

Yet  I  must  say  I  wished  you  at  home  ! 
Though  1  kept  what  I  fancied  in  petto, 

And  felt  you  would  ever  be  true, 
Yet  I  dreamed  of  the  murderer's  stiletto 

Each  night — and  its  victim  was  you  ! 

I'm  arrived  at  the  end  of  my  paper, 
So,  dearest,  you'll  not  think  it  rude, 

If  I  ring  for  my  seal  and  a  taper. 
And  think  it  high  time  to  conclude. 


LETTER     FROM     MISS     MORTIMER.  197 

Adieu  then — dejected  and  lonely, 

Till  I  see  you  I  still  shall  remain, 
Addio  mio  caro — yours  only — 

Yours  ever,         Amelia  Jane. 

P.  S. — You  may  buy  me  a  dress  like  Selina's, 

Her  complexion  's  so  much  like  my  own  ; 
And  don't  fail  to  call  at  Farina's 

For  a  case  of  his  Eau  de  Cologne. 
And  whate'er  your  next  letter  announces, 

Let  it  also  intelligence  bring, 
If  the  French  have  left  off  the  deep  flounces, 

And  what  will  be  worii  for  the  Spring  ! 


AN   OLD-FASHIONED  RECIPE 

FOR   MAKING   TIME    STAND   STILL. 

Dear  Tom !  if  you  would  learn  the  way 

To  quaff  Life's  true  elixir, 
To  keep  your  curls  from  growing  grey, 

And,  as  joy  flies,  to  fix  her : 
Though  scholar  in  no  modern  schools, 

Skilled  but  in  old  romances, 
I've  yet  a  few  old-fashioned  rules 

To  check  grim  Time's  advances; 
And  this  the  first — If  day  and  night 

You'd  shun  the  dotard's  hold, 
"  Keep  all  about  your  Conscience  right," 

And  then — you'll  not  grow  old. 

And  never  mind,  whate'er  they  tell, 

Dear  Tom,  of  modern  uses, 
Be  sure  you'll  do  just  twice  as  well 

To  stick  to  old  abuses  ; 
So  pay  your  taxes — love  your  king, 

Howe'er  our  sages  bore  you. 
Take  opening  med'cines  in  the  Spring, 

As  your  fathers  did  before  you ; 
[198] 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    RECIPE.  199 

Don't  lend  your  razor — nor  your  hack, 

And  when  you  lend  your  gold, 
Be  sure  you  don't  expect  it  back, 

And  then — you'll  not  grow  old ! 

And  stern  howe'er  you  play  your  part 

In  Life's  more  sober  stages, 
Keep  one  small  corner  in  your  heart 

For  boyhood's  sunny  pages  ; 
Don't  cut  a  friend  because  he's  poor, 

But  pause  before  you  choose  him ; 
And  when  a  man  has  shut  the  door, 

Don't  let  \ns,fne7ids  abuse  him  : 
Sell  off  your  claret — if  you  must — 

But  keep  yourself  unsold, 
Then  live  upon  a  laugh,  or  crust, 

And  still — you'll  not  grow  old  ! 

And  when,  to  dissipate  your  gloom, 

You  wander  down  some  even. 
And  sit  within  the  long  brick  room. 

Tie-formed  since  old  Saint  Stephen, 
If  you  should  hear  a  sacred  name. 

First  taught  by  her  who  bore  you, 
And  your  fithcr's  ancient  faith  and  fame 

Denounced  as  "  cant  "  before  you  ; 
Don't  fancy  that  we're  turned  to  Turks, 

But  just  go  home — unfold 
Some  page  of  Pitt's,  or  Fox,  or  I?ui-ke's, 

And  then — you'll  not  grow  old  ! 


200  AN    OLD-FASHIONED    KECIPE. 

And  welcome,  Tom,  on  lieatli  or  hill 

Each  bright  green  spot  may  greet  you ; 
Call  Hope  delusion,  if  you  will, 

Bvit  let  her — let  her  cheat  you  ! 
Don't  rob  Life's  roses  of  their  bloom, 

Though  Benthamites  deride  you — 
Don't  sit  within  a  childless  gloom, 

Though  Martin eau  may  chide  you  ; 
But  trust,  when  bright  things  round  you  die, 

Somethinsr  our  mothers  told 
Of  hopes  and  homes  beyond  the  sky, — 

And  then — you'll  not  gi'ow  old  ! 


GOOD    NIGHT. 

Good  night  to  thee,  lady  ! — though  many 

Have  joiu'd  in  the  dance  to-night, 
Thy  form  was  the  fairest  of  any, 

Where  all  was  seducing  and  bright ; 
Thy  smile  was  the  softest  and  dearest. 

Thy  form  the  most  sylph-like  of  all, 
And  thy  voice  the  most  gladsome  and  clearest 

That  e'er  held  a  partner  in  thrall. 

Good  night  to  thee,  lady  ! — 'tis  over — 

The  waltz,  the  quadrille,  and  the  song — 
The  whisper'd  farewell  of  the  lover. 

The  heartless  adieu  of  the  throng ; 
The  heart  that  was  throbbing  with  pleasure, 

The  eye-lid  that  long'd  for  repose — 
The  beaux  that  were  dreaming  of  treasure. 

The  girls  that  were  dreaming  of  beaux. 

'Tis  over — the  lights  are  all  dying. 

The  coaches  all  driving  away  ;  . 
And  many  a  fair  one  is  sighing. 

And  many  a  false  one  is  gay  ; 


202  GOOD     NIGHT. 

And  Beauty  counts  over  her  numbers 
Of  conquests,  as  homeward  she  drives — 

And  some  are  gone  home  to  their  slumbers, 
And  some  are  gone  home  to  their  wives. 

And  I,  while  my  cab  in  the  shower 

Is  waiting,  the  last  at  the  door, 
Am  looking  all  round  for  the  flower 

That  fell  from  your  wreath  on  the  floor. 
I'll  keep  it^ — if  but  to  remind  me, 

Though  withered  and  faded  its  hue — 
Wherever  next  season  may  find  me — 

Of  England — of  Almack's — and  you  ! 

There  are  tones  that  will  haunt  us,  though  lonely 

Our  path  be  o'er  mountain  or  sea ; 
There  are  looks  that  will  part  from  us  only 

When  memory  ceases  to  be  ; 
There  are  hopes  which  our  burden  can  lighten, 

Though  toilsome  and  steep  be  the  way ; 
And  dreams  that,  like  moonlight,  can  brighten 

With  a  light  that  is  clearer  than  day. 

There  are  names  that  we  cherish,  though  nameless  ; 

For  aye  on  the  lip  they  may  be  ; 
There  are  hearts  that,  though  fetter'd,  are  tameless, 

And  thoughts  unexpress'd,  but  still  free ! 
And  some  are  too  grave  for  a  rover. 

And  some  for  a  husband  too  light. 
— The  ball  and  my  dream  are  all  over — 

Good  night  to  thee,  lady  !  good  night ! 


JOSEPHINE. 


We  did  not  meet  in  courtly  hall, 

Where  Birth  and  Beauty  throng. 
Where  Luxury  holds  festival, 

And  wit  awakes  the  song ; 
We  met  where  darker  spirits  meet, 

In  the  home  of  Sin  and  Shame, 
Where  Satan  shows  his  cloven  feet. 

And  hides  his  titled  name  ; 
Ajid  she  knew  she  could  not  be,  Love, 

What  once  she  might  have  been, 
But  she  was  kind  to  me.  Love, 

My  pretty  Josephine. 

We  did  not  part  beneath  the  sky. 

As  warmer  lovers  part, 
Where  Night  conceals  the  glistening  eye, 

But  not  the  throbbing  heart; 
We  parted  on  the  spot  of  ground 

Where  we  first  had  laiigliud  at  love, 
And  ever  the  jests  were  loud  aromid, 

And  the  lamps  were  bright  above  : 


204 


JOSEPHINE. 

"  The  heaven  is  very  dark,  Love, 
The  blast  is  very  keen, 
But  merrily  rides  my  bark,  Love — • 
Good  night,  my  Josephine  !" 

She  did  not  speak  of  ring  or  vow, 

But  filled  the  cup  of  wine. 
And  took  the  roses  from  her  brow 

To  make  a  wreath  for  mine  ; 
And  bade  me,  when  the  gale  should  lift 

My  light  skiff  on  the  wave, 
To  think  as  little  of  the  gift 

As  of  the  hand  that  gave : 
"  Go  gaily  o'er  the  sea.    Love, 

And  find  your  own  heart's  queen  ;  ' 
And  look  not  back  to  me.  Love, 

Your  humble  Josephine  !" 

That  garland  breathes  and  blooms  no  more, 

Past  are  those  idle  hours  ; 
I  would  not,  could  I  choose,  restore 

The  fondness  or  the  flowers  ; 
Yet  oft  their  withered  witchery 

Eevives  its  wonted  thrill. 
Remembered — not  with  Passion's  sigh. 

But  oh  !  remembered  still  : 
And  even  from  your  side.  Love, 

And  even  from  this  scene, 
One  look  is  o'ei-  the  tide,  Love, 

One  thought  with  Josephine  ! 


JOSEPHINE.  205 

Alas  !  your  lips  are  rosier, 

Your  eyes  of  softer  blue, 
And  I  have  never  felt  for  her 

As  I  have  felt  for  you ; 
Our  love  Avas  like  the  snow-flakes, 

Which  melt  before  you  pass — 
Or  the  bubble  on  the  wine,  which  breaks 

Before  you  lip  the  glass. 
You  saw  these  eye-lids  wet,  Love, 

Which  she  has  never  seen  ; 
But  bid  me  not  forget,  Love, 

My  poor,  poor  Josephine  ! 


MAESTON    MOOR. 


To  horse !  to  horse !  Sir  Nicholas,  the  clarion's  note  is 

high  I 
To  horse  !  to  horse  !  Sir  Nicholas,  the  big  drum  makes 

reply !  ^ 

Ere  this  hath  Lucas  marched,  with  his  gallant  cavaliers, 
And  the  bray  of  Eupert's  trumpets  grows  fainter  in  our 

ears. 
To  horse  !    to  horse  !  Sir  Nicholas !     White  Guy  is  at 

the  door, 
And  the  raven  whets  his  beak  o'er  the  field  of  Marston 

Moor. 

Up  rose  the  Lady  Alice,  from  her  brief  and  broken 
prayer. 

And  she  brought  a  silken  banner  down  the  narrow  tur- 
ret-stair ; 

Oh !  many  were  the  tears  that  those  radiant  eyes  had 
shed, 

As  she  traced  the  bi-ight  word  "  Glory  "  in  the  gay  and 
glancing  thread ; 


MARSTON     MOOR.  207 

And  mournful  was  the  smile  which  o'er  those  lovely 

features  ran, 
As  she  said,  "  It  is  your  lady's  gift,  unfurl  it  in  the  van  !" 

"  It  shall  flutter,  noble  wench,  where  the  best  and  boldest 

ride 
Midst  the  steel-clad  files  of  Skippon,  the  black  dragoons 

of  Pride ; 
The  recreant  heart  of  Fairfax  shall  feel  a  sicklier  qualm, 
And  the  rebel  lips  of  Oliver  give  out  a  louder  psalm, 
When  they  see  my  lady's  gewgaw  flaunt  proudly  on 

their  wing. 
And  hear  her  loyal  soldier's   shout,  "  For  God  and  for 

the  King." 

'Tis  soon.     The  ranks  are  broken,  along  the  royal  line 
They  fly,  the  braggarts  of  the  court !  the  bullies  of  the 

Rhine  ! 
Stout  Langdale's  cheer  is  heard  no  more,  and  Astley's 

helm  is  down. 
And  Rupert  sheathes  his  rapier,  with  a  curse  and  with  a 

frown, 
And  cold  Newcastle   mutters,  as  he  follows   in  their 

flight, 
"  The  German  boar  had  better  far  have  supped  in  York 

to-night." 

The  knight  is  left  alone,  his  steel-cap  cleft  in  twain, 
His  good  buff"  jerkin  crimsoned  o'er  with  many  a  gory 
stain ; 


208  MARSTON     MOOR. 

Yet  still  he  waves  his  banner,  and  cries  amid  the  rout, 
"  For  Church  and  King,  fair  gentlemen !  spur  on,  and 

fight  it  out !" 
And  now  he  wards  a  Roundhead's  pike,  and  now  he 

hums  a  stave, 
And  now  he  quotes  a  stage-play,  and  now  he  fells  a 

knave. 

God  aid  thee  now,  Sir  Nicholas  !  thou  hast  no  thought 

of  fear ; 
God  aid  thee  now,  Sir  Nicholas !  for  fearful  odds  are 

here ! 
The  rebels  hem  thee  in,  and  at  every  cut  and  thrust, 
"  Down,  down,"  they  cry,  "  with  Belial !  down  with  him 

to  the  dust." 
"  I  would,"  quoth  grim  old  Oliver,  "  that  Belial's  trusty 

sword, 
This  day  were  doing  battle  for  the  Saints  and  for  the 

Lord !" 

The  Lady  "Xlice  sits  with  her  maidens  in  her  bower, 

The  gray-haired  warder  watches  from  the  castle's  top- 
most tower ; 

"What  news?  what  news,  old  Hubert  1"—"  The  bat- 
tle's lost  and  won : 

The  royal  troops  are  melting,  like  mists  before  the 
sun ! 

And  a  wounded  man  approaches ; — I'm  blind  and  cannot 
see, 

Yet  sure  I  am  that  sturdy  step,  my  master's  step  must 
be!" 


MARSTON     IIOOB.  209 

*'  I've  brought  thee  back  thy  banner,  wench,  from  as 
rude  and  red  a  fray, 

As  e'er  was  proof  of  soldier's  thew,  or  theme  for  min- 
strel's lay  ! 

Here,  Hubert,  bring  the  silver  bowl,  and  liquor  quantum 
suff. 

I'll  make  a  shift  to  drain  it  yet,  ere  I  part  with  boots 
and  bull"; — 

Though  Guy  through  many  a  gaping  wound  is  breathing 
forth  his  life, 

And  I  come  to  thee  a  landless  man,  my  fond  and  faithful 
wife ! 

"  Sweet !  we  will  fill  our  money-bags,  and  freight  a  ship 
for  France, 

And  mourn  in  merry  Paris  for  this  poor  land's  mis- 
chance : 

For  if  the  worst  befall  me,  why  better  axe  and  rope, 

Than  life  with  Lenthal  for  a  king,  and  Peters  for  a  pope ! 

Alas !  alas !  my  gallant  Guy  ! — curse  on  the  crop-eared 
boor,  *■ 

Who  sent  me  with  my  standard,  on  foot  from  Marston 
Moor  !" 


STANZAS, 


WRITTEN    UNDER    A    DRAWING    OF    KING'S  COLLEGE    CHAPEL, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


EXTRACTED  EKOM  AN  ALBUM  IN  DEVONSHIEE. 

Most  beautiful ! — 1  gaze  and  gaze 

In  silence  on  the  glorious  pile ; 
And  the  glad  thoughts  of  other  days 

Come  thronging  back  the  while. 
To  me  dim  Memory  makes  more  dear 

The  perfect  grandeur  of  the  shrine  : 
But  if  I  stood  a  stranger  here. 

The  ground  were  still  divine. 

Some  awe  the  good  and  wise  have  felt, 

As  reverently  their  feet  have  trod 
On  any  spot  where  man  hath  knelt, 

To  commune  with  his  God ; 
By  haunted  spring,  or  fairy  well, 

Beneath  the  ruined  convent's  gloom, 
Beside  the  feeble  hermit's  cell. 

Or  the  false  prophet's  tomb. 


STANZAS.  211 

But  when  was  high  devotion  graced 

With  lovelier  dwelling,  loftier  throne, 
Than  thus  the  limner's  art  hath  traced 

From  the  time-honored  stone  ? 
The  spirit  here  of  worship  seems 

To  hold  the  heart  in  wondrous  thrall, 
And  heavenward  hopes  and  holy  di'eams, 

Came  at  her  voiceless  call ; — 

At  midnight,  when  the  lonely  moon 

Looks  from  a  vapor's  silvery  fold  ; 
Or  morning,  when  the  sun  of  June 

Crests  the  high  towers  with  gold ; 
For  every  change  of  hour  and  form. 

Makes  that  fair  scene  more  deeply  fair  ; 
And  dusk  and  day-break,  calm  and  storm, 

Are  all  religion  there. 


TWENTY-EIGHT  AND  TWENTY-NINE. 

I  HEARD  a  sick  man's  dying  sigh. 

And  an  infant's  idle  laughter, 
The  Old  Year  went  with  mourning  by — 

The  New  came  dancing  after  ! 
Let  Sorrow  shed  her  lonely  tear, 

Let  Revelry  hold  her  ladle ; 
Bring  boughs  of  cypress  for  the  bier, 

Fling  roses  on  the  cradle  ; 
Mutes  to  wait  on  the  funeral  state ; 

Pages  to  pour  the  wine; 
A  requiem  for  Twenty-Eight, 

And  a  health  to  Twenty-Nine  ! 

Alas  for  human  happiness  ! 

Alas  for  human  sorrow  ! 
Our  yesterday  is  nothingness. 

What  else  will  be  our  morrow  1 
Still  Beauty  must  be  stealing  hearts, 

And  Knavery  stealing  purses  ; 
Still  cooks  must  live  by  making  tarts, 

And  wits  by  making  verses ; 


TWENTY-EIGHT     AND      TWENTy-NINE.       213 

While  sages  prate  and  courts  debate, 

The  same  stars  set  and  shine  ; 
And  the  world  as  it  rolled  through  Twenty-Eight, 

Must  roll  through  Twenty -Nine. 

Some  King  will  come,  in  Heaven's  good  time, 

To  the  tomb  his  father  came  to  ; 
Some  Thief  will  wade  through  blood  and  crime 

To  a  crown  he  has  no  claim  to ; 
Some  suftering  land  will  rend  in  twain 

The  manacles  that  bound  her  ; 
And  gather  the  links  of  the  broken  chain 

To  fasten  them  proudly  round  her  ; 
The  grand  and  great  will  love  and  hate, 

And  combat  and  combine  ; 
And  much  where  we  were  in  Twenty-Eight, 

We  shall  be  in  Twenty-Nine. 

O'Coijnell  will  toil  to  raise  the  Rent, 

And  Kenyon  to  sink  the  Nation  ; 
And  Sheil  will  abuse  the  Parliament, 

And  Peel  the  Association  ; 
And  thought  of  bayonets  and  swords 

Will  make  ex-Chancellors  merry; 
And  jokes  will  be  cut  in  the  House  of  Lords, 

And  thi-oats  in  the  County  of  Kerry ; 
And  writers  of  weight  will  speculate 

On  the  Cabinet's  design  ; 
And  just  what  it  did  in  Twenty-Eight 

It  will  do  ill  'J'wcnty-Ninc, 


214      TWENTY-EIGHT     AND     TWENTY-NINE. 

And  the  Goddess  of  Love  will  keep  her  smiles, 

And  the  God  of  Cups  his  orgies ; 
And  there'll  be  riots  in  St.  Giles, 

And  weddings  in  St.  George's  ; 
And  mendicants  will  sup  like  Kings, 

And  Lords  will  swear  like  lacqueys ; 
And  black  eyes  oft  will  lead  to  rings, 

And  rings  will  lead  to  black  eyes; 
And  pretty  Kate  will  scold  her  mate, 

In  a  dialect  all  divine  ; 
Alas  !  they  married  in  Twenty-Eight, 

They  will  part  in  Twenty-Nine. 

My  uncle  will  swathe  his  gouty  limbs, 

And  talk  of  his  oils  and  blubbers ; 
My  aunt,  Miss  Dobbs,  will  play  longer  hymns, 

And  rather  longer  rubbers  ; 
My  cousin  in  Parliament  will  prove 

How  utterly  ruined  Trade  is : 
My  brother,  at  Eaton,  will  fall  in  love 

With  half  a  hundred  ladies  ; 
My  patron  will  sate  his  pride  from  plate. 

And  his  thirst  from  Bordeaux  wine  : 
His  nose  was  red  in  Twenty- Eight, 

'Twill  be  redder  in  Twenty -Nine. 

And  oh !  I  shall  find  how,  day  by  day. 
All  thoughts  and  things  look  older ; 

How  the  laugh  of  Pleasure  grows  less  gay, 
And  the  heait  of  Friendship  colder ; 


TWENTY-EIGHT     AND     TWENTY-NINE.       215 

But  still  I  shall  be  what  I  have  been, 

'•  Sworn  foe  to  Lady  Reason, 

And  seldom  troubled  with  the  spleen. 

And  fond  of  talking  treason  ; 
J  shall  buckle  my  skait,  and  leap  my  gate, 

And  throw  and  write  my  line  ; 
And  the  woman  I  worshipped  in  Twenty-Eight 

I  shall  worship  in  Twenty-Nine. 


HOW  SHALL  I  WOO  HER1 

L'on  n'aime  bieii  qu'une  senle  fois :  c'est  la  premiere. 
Les  amours  qui  suivent  sont  moins  involontaires  ! 

La  Bruyere. 

I. 

How  shall  I  woo  her  ? — I  will  stand 

Beside  her  when  she  sings  ; 
And  watch  that  fine  and  fairy  hand 

Flit  o'er  the  quivering  strings  : 
And  I  will  tell  her,  I  have  heard, 

Though  sweet  her  song  may  be, 
A  voice,  whose  every  whispered  word 

Was  more  than  song  to  me  ! 

II. 

How  shall  I  woo  her  % — I  will  gaze, 

In  sad  and  silent  trance, 
On  those  blue  eyes,  whose  liquid  rays 

Look  love  in  every  glance  ; 
And  I  will  tell  her,  eyes  more  bright, 

Though  bright  her  own  may  beam, 
Will  fling  a  deeper  spell  to-night 

Upon  me  in  my  dream. 


HOW     SHALL     I     WOO     HER?  217 


III. 

How  shall  I  woo  her  ? — I  will  try 

The  charms  of  olden  time, 
And  swear  by  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 

And  rave  in  prose  and  rhyme ; — 
And  I  will  tell  her  when  I  bent 

My  knee  in  other  years, 
I  was  not  half  so  eloquent, 

I  could  not  speak  for  tears ! 

IV. 

How  shall  I  woo  her  1 — I  will  bow 

Before  the  holy  shrine  ; 
And  pray  the  prayer,  and  vow  the  vow. 

And  press  her  lips  to  mine ; 
And  I  will  tell  her,  when  she  parts 

From  passion's  thrilling  kiss, 
That  memory  to  many  hearts 

Is  dearer  far  than  bliss. 

V. 

Away  !  away  !  the  chords  are  mute, 
The  bond  is  rent  in  twain ; — 

You  cannot  wake  that  silent  luto. 
Nor  clasp  those  links  again ; 

Love's  toil  I  know  is  little  cost. 
Love's  perjury  is  light  sin  ; 

But  souls  that  lose  what  I  have  lost, — 

What  have  they  left  to  win  1 
10 


STANZAS, 


The  lady  of  his  love,  oh,  she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ! 

Byron. 

Go  thou,  while  in  tliy  soiil,  and  fijl  a  throne 
Of  innocence  and  purity,  in  Heaven ! 

Ford. 

I  KNOW  that  it  must  be, 
Yea  !  thou  art  changed — all  worshipped  as  thou  art — 
Mourned  as  thou  shalt  be !     Sickness  of  the  heart 

Hath  done  its  work  on  thee ! 

Thy  dim  eyes  tell  a  tale, 
A  piteous  tale,  of  vigils ;  and  the  trace 
Of  bitter  tears  is  on  thy  beauteous  face, 

Beauteous,  and  yet  so  pale  ! 

Changed  love  !  but  not  alone  ! 
I  am  not  what  they  think  me ;  though  my  cheek 
Wear  but  its  last  year's  furrow,  though  1  speak 

Thus  in  my  natural  tone. 


STANZAS.  219 

The  temple  of  my  youth 
Was  strong  in  moral  purpose :  once  I  felt 
The  glory  of  philosophy,  and  knelt 

In  the  pure  shrine  of  truth. 

I  went  into  the  storm, 
And  mocked  the  billows  of  the  tossing  sea ; 
I  said  to  Fate,  "  What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  ? 

I  have  not  harmed  a  worm  !" 

Vainly  the  heart  is  steeled 
In  Wisdom's  armor ;  let  her  burn  her  books ! 
I  look  upon  them  as  the  soldier  looks 

Upon  his  cloven  shield. 

Virtue  and  Viitue's  rest, 
How  have  they  perished  !  Through  my  onward  course 
Repentance  dogs  my  footsteps!  black  Remorse 

Is  my  familiar  guest! 

The  glory  and  the  glow 
Of  the  world's  loveliness  have  passed  away  ; 
And  Fate  hath  little  to  inflict,  to-day, 

And  nothing  to  bestow  ! 

Is  not  the  damning  line 
Of  guilt  and  grief  engraven  on  me  now  1 
And  the  fierce  passion  which  hath  scathed  thy  brow, 

ITath  it  not  blasted  mine? 

No  matter  !  I  will  turn 
To  the  straight  path  of  duty  ;  I  have  wrought, 
At  last,  my  wayward  spirit  to  be  taught 

What  it  lialh  yet  to  learn. 


220  STANZAS. 

Labor  shall  be  my  lot ; 
My  kindred  shall  be  joj'ful  in  my  praise ; 
And  Fame  shall  twine  for  me,  in  after  days, 

A  wreath  I  covet  not. 

And  if  I  cannot  make, 
Dearest !  thy  hope  my  hope,  thy  trust  my  trust, 
Yet  will  I  study  to  be  good,  and  just. 

And  blameless,  for  thy  sake. 

Thou  may'st  have  comfort  yet ! 
Whate'er  the  source  from  which  those  waters  glide, 
Thou  hast  found  healing  mercy  in  their  tide ; 

Be  happy  and  forget ! 

Forget  me — and  farewell! 
But  say  not  that  in  me  new  'hopes  and  fears. 
Or  absence,  or  the  lapse  of  gradual  years. 

Will  break  thy  memory's  spell ! 

Indelibly,  within, 
All  I  have  lost  is  written ;  and  the  theme 
Which  Silence  whispers  to  my  thoughts  and  dreams 

Is  sorrow  still — and  sin  ! 


THE  CONFESSION  OE  DON  CARLOS. 

Oh  tell  not  me  of  broken  vow — 

I  speak  a  firmer  passion  now ; 

Oh !  tell  not  me  of  shattered  chain — 

The  link  shall  never  burst  again  ; 

My  soul  is  fix'd  as  firmly  here 

As  the  red  Sun  in  his  career ; 

As  Victory  on  Mina's  crest, 

Or  Tenderness  in  Rosa's  breast, 

Then  do  not  tell  me,  while  we  part, 

Of  fickle  flame,  and  roving  heart ; 

While  Youth  shall  bow  at  Beauty's  shrine, 

That  flame  shall  glow — that  heart  be  thine. 

Then  wherefore  dost  thou  bid  inc  tell 
The  tale  thy  malice  knows  so  well  ? 
I  may  not  disobey  thee ! — Yes ! 
Thou  bidst  mc, — and  I  will  confess  : — 
See  how  adoringly  I  kneel — 
Hear  how  my  folly  1  reveal ; 
My  folly  ! — chide  me  if  thou  wilt, 
Thou  shah  not — canst  not  call  it — fjuilt. 


222   THE  CONFESSION  OF  DON  CARLOS. 

And  when  my  faithlessness  is  told, 
Ere  thou  liast  time  to  play  the  scold, 
I'll  haste  the  fond  rebuke  to  check, 
And  lean  upon  thy  snowy  neck, 
Play  with  its  glossy  auburn  hair. 
And  hide  the  blush  of  falsehood  there. 

Inez,  the  innocent  and  young, 

First  snared  my  heart,  and  waked  my  song ; 

We  both  were  harmless,  and  untaught 

To  love  as  fashionables  ought ; 

With  all  the  modesty  of  youth, 

We  talk'd  of  constancy  and  truth ; 

Grew  fond  of  Music,  and  the  Moon, 

And  wander'd  on  the  nights  of  June, 

To  sit  beneath  the  chestnut-tree. 

While  the  lonely  stars  shone  mellowly, 

Shedding  a  pale  and  dancing  beam 

On  the  wave  of  Guadalquivir's  stream. 

And  aye  we  talk'd  of  faith  and  feelings. 

With  no  distrustings,  no  concealings ; 

And  aye  we  joy'd  in  stolen  glances. 

And  sigh'd  and  blush'd,  and  read  romances. 

Our  love  was  ardent  and  sincere, — 

And  lasted,  Rosa — half  a  year ! 

And  then  the  maid  grew  fickle-hearted. 

Married  Don  Jose — so  we  parted. 

At  twenty-one,  I've  often  heard, 

My  bashfulness  was  (^uite  absurd  ; 

For,  with  a  squeamishness  uncommon, 

I  fear'd  to  love  a  married  woman. 


THE  CONFESSION  OF  DON  CARLOS.   223 

Fair  Leonora's  laughing  eye 
Again  awaked  my  song  and  sigh : 
A  gay  intriguing  dame  was  she ; 
And  fifty  Dons  of  high  degree, 
That  came  and  went  as  they  were  bid, 
Dubb'd  her  the  Beauty  of  Madrid. 
Alas  !  what  constant  pains  I  took 
To  merit  one  approving  look  : 
*"      I  courted  Valor — and  the  Muse, 
Wrote  challenges — and  billet-doux; 
Paid  for  Sherbet  and  Serenade, 
Fenced  with  Pegru  and  Alvarade; 
Fought  at  the  Bull-fights  like  a  hero, 
Studied  small-talk, — and  the  Bolero  ; 
Play'd  the  guitar — and  play'd  the  fool ; 
This  out  of  tune — that  out  of  rule. 
I  oft  at  midnight  wander'd  out, 
Wrapt  up  in  love — and  my  capote. 
To  muse  on  beauty — and  the  skies. 
Cold  winds — and  Lenora's  eyes. 
Alas  !  when  all  my  gains  were  told, 
I'd  caught  a  Tartar* — and  a  cold. 
And  yet  perchance  that  lovely  brow 
Had  still  detain'd  my  captive  vow ; 
That  clear  blue  eye's  enchanting  roll 
Had  still  enthrall'd  my  yielding  soul ; 
But  suddenly  a  vision  bright 
Came  o'er  me  in  a  veil  of  light, 

*  Tlie  original  was  a  Spiinisii  idiom  which  wo  fouu'l  it  impossible 
to  reader  literally  ;  we  believe  it  comes  very  near  to  the  English  ex- 
pression which  we  have  substituted. 


224      THE     CONFESSION     OF     DON     CARLOS. 

And  burst  the  bond  whose  fetters  bound  me, 
And  broke  the  spell  that  hung  around  me, 
Eecall'd  the  heart  that  madly  roved, 
And  bade  me  love,  and  be  beloved. 
Who  was  it  broke  the  chahi  and  spell  ? 
Dark-eyed  Castilian  ! — thou  canst  tell ! 
And  am  I  faithless  1 — wo  the  while, 
What  vow  but  melts  at  Rosa's  smile  ? 
For  broken  vows,  and  faith  betrayed, 
The  guilt  is  thine,  Castilian  maid ! 

The  tale  is  told  and  I  am  gone  ! — 
Think  of  me,  loved  and  lovely  one, 
When  none  on  earth  shall  care  beside 
How  Carlos  lived,  or  loved,  or  died ! 
Thy  love  on  earth  shall  be  to  me 
A  bird  upon  a  leafless  tree — 
A  bark  upon  a  hopeless  wave — 
A  lily  on  a  torabless  grave — 
A  cheering  hope — a  living  ray, 
To  light  me  on  a  weary  way. 

And  thus  is  Love's  Confession  done  ; 
Give  mo  thy  parting  benison ; 
And  ere  I  rise  from  bended  knee. 
To  wander  o'er  a  foreign  sea, 
Alone  and  friendless, — ere  I  don 
My  pilgrim's  hat,  and  sandal  shoon— « 
Dark-eyed  Castilian  !  let  me  win 
Forgiveness  sweet  for  venial  sin  ; 
Let  lonely  sighs  and  dreams  of  thee, 
Be  penance  for  my  perjury. 


TO    JULIA, 

PREPAKING    FOR    THE    FIRST    SEASON    IN    TOWN. 

Julia,  while  London's  fancied  bliss 
Bids  you  despise  a  life  like  this, 

While and  its  joys  you  leave, 

For  hopes,  that  flatter  to  deceive, 

You  will  not  scornfully  refuse, 

(Though  dull  the  theme,  and  weak  the  Muse,) 

To  look  upon  my  line,  and  hear 

What  Friendship  sends  to  Beauty's  ear. 

Four  miles  from  Town,  a  neat  abode 

O'erlooks  a  rose-bush,  and  a  road  ; 

A  paling,  clean'd  with  constant  care. 

Surrounds  ten  yards  of  neat  parterre, 

Where  dusty  ivy  strives  to  crawl 

Five  inches  up  the  whiten'd  wall. 

The  open  window  thickly  set 

With  myrtle,  and  with  mignionette, 

Behind  whose  cultivated  row 

A  brace  of  globes  peep  out  for  show  ; 
10* 


226  TO     JULIA. 

The  avenue — the  burnish'd  plate, 
That  decks  the  would-be  rustic  gate, 
Denote  the  fane  where  Fashion  dwells, 
— "  Lyce's  Academy  for  Belles." 

'Twas  here,  in  earlier,  happier  days. 
Retired  from  pleasure's  weary  maze, 
You  found,  unknown  to  care  or  pain. 
The  peace  you  will  not  find  again. 
Here  Friendships,  far  too  fond  to  last, 
A  bright,  but  fleeting  radiance  cast. 
On  every  sport  that  Mirth  devised, 
And  every  scene  that  Childhood  prized, 
And  every  bliss,  that  bids  you  yet 
Recall  those  moments  with  regret. 

Those  friends  have  mingled  in  the  strife 
That  fills  the  busy  scene  of  life, 
And  Pride  and  Folly — Cares  and  Fears, 
Look  dark  upon  their  future  years  : 
But  by  their  wrecks  may  Julia  learn, 
Whither  her  fragile  bark  to  turn  ; 
And,  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  fate. 
Avoid  the  rocks  they  found  too  late. 

You  know  Camilla — o'er  the  plain 
She  guides  the  fiery  hunter's  rein ; 
First  in  the  chace  she  sounds  the  horn. 
Trampling  to  earth  the  farmer's  corn. 
That  hardly  deign'd  to  bend  its  head, 
Beneath  her  namesake's  lighter  tread. 


TO     J  U  L  T  A  .  227 

With  Bob  the  Squire,  her  polish'd  lover, 
She  wields  the  gun,  or  beats  the  cover ; 
.And  then  her  steed  ! — wh}-  5  every  clown 
Tells  how  she  rubs  Smolensko  down, 
And  combs  the  mane,  and  cleans  the  hoof, 
While  wondering  hostlers  stand  aloof. 

At  night,  before  the  Christmas  fire 
She  plays  backgammon  with  the  Squire ; 
Shares  in  his  laugh,  and  his  liquor, 
Mimics  her  father  and  the  Vicar  ; 
Swears  at  the  grooms — Avithout  a  blush 
Dips  in  her  ale  the  captured  brush, 

Until her  father  duly  tired — 

The  parson's  vng  as  duly  fired — 

The  dogs  all  still  — the  Squire  asleep. 

And  dreaming  of  his  usual  leap — 

She  leaves  the  dregs  of  white  and  red, 

And  lounges  languidly  to  bed  ; 

And  still  in  nightly  visions  borne. 

She  gallops  o'er  the  rustic's  corn  ; 

Still  wields  the  lash — still  shakes  the  box, 

Dreaming  of  "  sixes  " — and  the  fox. 

And  this  is  bliss — the  story  runs, 
Camilla  never  wept — save  once  ; 
Yes !  once  indeed  Camilla  cried — 
'Twas  when  her  dear  Blue-stockings  died. 

Pretty  Cordelia  thinks  she's  ill — 
She  seeks  her  med'cinc  at  Quadrille  ; 


228  TO     JULIA. 

With  hope,  and  fear,  and  envy  sick, 
She  gazes  on  the  dubious  trick, 
As  if  eternity  were  laid 
Upon  a  diamond,  or  a  spade. 
And  I  have  seen  a  transient  pique 
Wake,  o'er  that  soft  and  girlish  cheek, 
A  chilly  and  a  feverish  hue. 
Blighting  the  soil  where  Beauty  grew, 
And  bidding  Hate  and  Malice  rove 
In  eyes  that  ought  to  beam  with  love. 

Turn  we  to  Fannia — she  was  fair 
As  the  soft  fleeting  forms  of  air, 
Shaped  by  the  fancy — fitting  theme 
For  youthful  bard's  enamor'd  dream. 
The  neck,  on  whose  transparent  glow, 
The  auburn  ringlets  sweetly  flow. 
The  eye  that  swims  in  liquid  fire, 
The  brow  that  frowns  in  playful  ire  ; 
All  these,  when  Fannia's  early  youth 
Look'd  lovely  in  its  native  truth. 
Diffused  a  bright,  unconscious  grace, 
Almost  divine,  o'er  form  and  face. 

Her  lip  has  lost  its  fragrant  dew, 

Her  cheek  has  lost  its  rosy  hue, 

Her  eye  the  glad  enlivening  1-ays 

That  glitter'd  thefe  in  happier  days. 

Her  heart  the  ignorance  of  wo 

Which  Fashion's  votaries  may  not  know. 


TO     JULIA.  229 

The  city's  smoke — the  noxious  air — 
The  constant  crowd — the  torch's  glare — 
The  morning  sleep — the  noonday  call — 
The  late  repast — the  midnight  ball, 
Bid  Faith  and  Beauty  die,  and  taint 
Her  heart  with  fraud,  her  face  with  paint. 

And  what  the  boon,  the  prize  enjoy'd, 
For  fame  defaced,  and  peace  destroyed  ! 
Why  ask  we  this  ?     With  conscious  grace 
She  criticises  silk  and  lace  ; 
Queen  of  the  modes,  she  reigns  alike 
O'er  sarcenet,  bobbin,  net,  vandyke. 
O'er  rouge  and  ribbons,  combs  and  curls, 
Perfumes  and  patches,  pins  and  pearls ; 
Feelings  and  faintings,  songs  and  sighs. 
Small-talk  and  scandal,  love  and  lies. 

Circled  by  beaux  behold  her  sit. 

While  Dandies  tremble  at  her  wit ; 

The  Captain  hates  "  a  woman's  gab  ;" 

"  A  devil !"  cries  the  shy  Cantab  ; 

The  young  Etonian  strives  to  fly 

The  glance  of  her  sarcastic  eye, 

For  well  he  knows  she  looks  him  o'er, 

To  stamp  him  "  buck,"  or  dub  him  "  bore." 

Such  is  her  life — a  life  of  waste, 
A  life  of  wretchedness — and  taste. 
And  all  the  glory  Fannia  boasts, 
And  all  the  price  that  gloiy  costs, 


}30 


TO     JULIA 


At  once  arc  ivckou'd  up,  in  one-- 
One  word  of  bliss  and  folly Ton. 

Not  these  the  thoughts  that  could  perplex 
The  fancies  of  our  fickle  sex, 
When  England's  favorite,  good  Queen  Bess, 
Was  Queen  alike  o'er  war  and  dress. 
Then  ladies  gay  play'd  cliesse — and  ballads, 
And  learnt  to  dress  their  hair — and  salads ; 
Sweets — and  sweet  looks  were  studied  then. 
And  both  were  pleasing  to  the  men  ; 
For  cookery  was  allied  to  taste, 
And  girls  were  taught  to  blush — and  baste. 
Dishes  were  bright — and  so  were  eyes, 
And  lords  made  love — and-  ladies  pies. 

Then  Valor  won  the  wavering  field, 
By  dint  of  hauberk  and  of  shield  ; 
And  Beauty  won  the  wavering  heart. 
By  dint  of  pickle,  and  of  tart. 
The  minuet  was  the  favorite  dance, 
Girls  loved  the  needle — boys  the  lance  ; 
And  Cupid  took  his  constant  post 
At  dinner,  by  the  boil'd  and  roast, 
Or  secretly  was  wont  to  lurk. 
In  tournament,  or  needle-work. 
Oh  !  'twas  a  reign  of  all  delights, 
Of  hot  /S/r-loins, — and  hot  Sir  knights  ; 
Feasting  and  fighting,  hand  in  hand, 
Fatten'd,  and  glorified  the  land  ; 


TO     JULIA.  231 

And  noble  chiefs  had  noble  cheer. 


'5 


And  knights  grew  strong  upon  strong  beer ; 
Honor  and  oxen  both  were  nourish'd, 
And  chivalry — and  pudding  flourish'd. 

I'd  rather  see  that  magic  face, 

That  look  of  love,  that  form  of  grace, 

Circled  by  whalebone,  and  by  ruffs, 

Intent  on  puddings,  and  on  puffs, 

I'd  rather  view  thee  thus,  than  see 

"A  Fashionable"  rise  in  thee. 

If  Life  is  dark,  'tis  not  for  you, 

(If  partial  Friendship's  voice  is  true) 

To  cure  its  griefs,  and  drown  its  cares, 

By  leaping  gates,  and  murdering  hares, 

Nor  to  confine  that  feeling  soul, 

To  winning  lovers — or  the  vole. 

If  these  and  such  pursuits  are  thine. 
Julia  !  thou  ai-t  no  fiiend  of  mine  ! 
I  love  plain  dress — I  eat  plain  joints, 
I  canot  play  ten  guinea  points, 
I  make  no  study  of  a  pin, 
And  hate  a  female  whipper-in. 


LINES  TO   FLORENCE. 

Long  years  have  pass'd  with  silent  pace, 

Florence  !  since  you  and  I  have  met ; 
Yet — when  that  meeting  I  retrace, 

My  cheek  is  pale,  my  eye  is  wet ; 
For  I  was  doom'd  from  thence  to  rove, 

O'er  distant  tracts  of  earth  and  sea. 
Unaided,  Florence  ! — save  by  love  ; 

And  unremember'd — save  by  thee  ! 
We  met !  and  hope  beguiled  our  fears, 

Hope,  ever  bright,  and  ever  vain ; 
We  parted  thence  in  silent  tears. 

Never  to  meet — in  life — again. 
The  myrtle  that  I  gaze  upon. 

Sad  token  by  thy  love  devised, 
Is  all  the  record  left  of  one 

So  long  bewail'd — so  dearly  prized. 
You  gave  it  in  an  hour  of  grief, 

When  gifts  of  love  are  doubly  dear  ; 
You  gave  it — and  one  tender  leaf 

Glisten'd  the  while  with  Beauty's  tear. 


LINES     TO     FLORENCE.  233 

A  tear — oh  lovelier  far  to  me, 

Shed  for  me  in  my  saddest  hour, 
Than  bright  and  flattering  smiles  could  be, 

In  courtly  hall  or  summer  bower, 
You  strove  my  anguish  to  beguile, 

With  distant  hopes  of  future  weal ; 
You  strove ! — alas  !  you  could  not  smile, 

Nor  speak  the  hope  you  did  not  feel. 
I  bore  the  gift  Affection  gave. 

O'er  desert  sand  and  thorny  brake, 
O'er  rugged  rock  and  stormy  wave, 

I  loved  it  for  the  giver's  sake ; 
And  often  in  my  happiest  day, 

In  scenes  of  bliss  and  hours  of  pride, 
When  all  around  was  glad  and  gay, 

I  look'd  upon  the  gift — and  sigh'd  : 
And  when  on  ocean,  or  on  clift, 

Forth  strode  the  Spirit  of  the  Storm, 
I  gazed  upon  thy  fading  gift, 

I  thought  upon  thy  fading  form  ; 
Forgot  the  lightning's  vivid  dart, 

Forgot  the  rage  of  sky  and  sea, 
Forgot  the  doom  that  bade  us  part — 

And  only  lived  to  love  and  thee. 
Florence  !  thy  myrtle  blooms  !  but  thou. 

Beneath  thy  cold  and  lowly  stone. 
Forgetful  of  our  mutual  vow. 

And  of  a  heart — still  all  thine  own, 
Art  laid  in  that  unconscious  sleep. 

Which  he  that  wails  thee  soon  must  know, 


234  LINES     TO     FLORENCE. 

Where  none  may  smile,  and  none  ma}'  weep, 

None  dream  of  bliss,  or  wake  to  wo.  , 

If  e'er,  as  Fancy  oft  will  ftjign, 

To  that  dear  spot  which  gave  thee  birth 
Thy  fleeting  shade  returns  again, 

To  look  on  him  thou  lov'dst  on  earth, 
It  may  a  moment's  joy  impart, 

To  know  that  this,  thy  favorite  tree. 
Is  to  my  desolated  heart 

Almost  as  dear  as  thou  could'st  be. 
My  Florence  ! — soon — the  thought  is  sweet ! 

The  turf  that  wraps  thee  I  shall  press ; 
Again,  my  Florence  !  we  shall  meet. 

In  bliss — or  in  forgetfulness. 
With  thee  in  Death's  oblivion  laid, 

I  will  not  have  the  cypress  gloom 
To  throw  its  sickly,  sullen  shade. 

Over  the  stillness  of  my  tomb  : 
And  there  the  'scutcheon  shall  not  shine, 

And  there  the  banner  shall  not  wave ; 
The  treasures  of  the  glittering  mine 

Would  ill  become  a  lover's  grave  : 
But  when  from  this  abode  of  strife 

My  liberated  shade  shall  roam. 
Thy  myrtle,  that  has  cheer'd  my  life 

Shall  decorate  my  narrow  home  : 
And  it  shall  bloom  in  beauty  there. 

Like  Florence  in  her  early  day ; 
Or,  nipp'd  by  cold  December's  air, 

Whither — like  Hope  and  thee — away. 


STANZAS. 


O'er  yon  Churchyard  the  storm  may  lower ; 

But,  heedless  of  the  wintry  air, 

One  little  bud  shall  linger  there, 
A  still  and  trembling  flower. 

Unscathed  by  long  revolving  years, 
Its  tender  leaves  shall  flourish  yet, 
And  sparkle  in  the  moonlight,  wet 

With  the  pale  dew  of  tears. 

And  where  thine  humble  ashes  lie, 
Instead  of  'scutcheon  or  of  stone. 
It  rises  o'er  thee,  lonely  one, 

Child  of  obscurity  ! 

Mild  was  thy  voice  as  Zephyr's  breath, 
Thy  cheeli  with  flowing  locks  was  shaded  ! 
But  the  voice  hath  died,  the  check  hath  faded 

In  the  cold  breeze  of  death  ! 


23G  STANZAS. 

Brightly  thine  eye  was  smiling,  Sweet ! 

But  now  Decay  hath  still'd  its  glancing ; 

Warmly  thy  little  heart  was  dancing, 
But  it  hath  ceased  to  beat ! 

A  few  short  months — and  thou  wert  here  ! 

Hope  sat  upon  thy  youthful  brow ; 

And  what  is  thy  memorial  now? 
A  flower — and  a  Tear. 


CASSANDRA. 

"  They  hurried  to  the  feast, 

The  warrior  and  the  priest, 
And  the  gay  maiden  with  her  jeweled  brow ; 

The  minstrel's  harp  and  voice 

Said  '  Triumph  and  rejoice  !' 
One  only  mourned  ! — many  are  mourning  now ! 

'"Peace  !  startle  not  the  light 

With  the  wild  dreams  of  night ;' — 

So  spake  the  Princes  in  their  pride  and  joy, 
When  I  in  their  dull  ears 
Shrieked  forth  my  tale  of  tears, 

'  Wo  to  the  gorgeous  city,  wo  to  Troy  !' — 

"Ye  watch  the  dun  smoke  rise 

Up  to  the  lurid  skies; 
Ye  see  the  red  light  flickering  on  the  stream ; 

Ye  listen  to  the  fall 

Of  gate,  and  tower,  and  wall ; 
Sisters,  the  time  is  come ' — akis,  it  is  no  dream  ! 


238 


CASSANDRA, 


"  Through  hall,  and  court,  and  porch, 

Glides  on  the  pitiless  torch ; 
The  swift  avengers  faint  not  in  their  toil : 

Vain  now  the  matron's  sighs  ; 

Vain  now  the  infant's  cries  ; 
Look,  sisters,  look,  who  leads  them  to  the  spoil  ? 

"  Not  Pyrrhus,  though  his  hand 

Is  on  his  father's  brand  ; 
Not  the  fell  framer  of  the  accursed  Steed; 

Not  Nestor's  hoary  head  ; 

Nor  Teucer's  rapid  tread ; 
Nor  the  fierce  wrath  of  impious  Diomede, 

"  Visions  of  deeper  fear     '• 

To-night  are  warring  here ; — 
I  know  them,  sisters,  the  mysterious  Three  ; 

Minerva's  lightning  frown. 

And  Juno's  golden  crown. 
And  him  the  mighty  ruler  of  the  sounding  sea. 

"  Through  wailing  and  through  wo, 

Silent  and  stern  they  go ; — 
So  have  I  ever  seen  them  in  my  trance ! 

Exultingly  they  guide 

Destruction's  fiery  tide, 
And  lift  the  dazzling  shield,  and  poise  the  deadly  lance. 

"  Lo  !  where  the  old  man  stands, 
Folding  his  palsied  hands, 
And  muttering  with  white  lips,  his  querulous  prayer: 


CASSANDRA.  239 

,     '  Where  is  my  noble  son, 

My  best,  my  bravest  one, — 
Troy's  hope  and  Priam's, — where  is  Hector,  where  V 

"  Why  is  thy  falchion  grasped  ? 

Why  is  thy  helmet  clasped  1 
Fitter  the  fillet  for  such  brow  as  thine  ! 

The  altar  reeks  with  gore ; 

Oh  sisters,  look  no  more ! 
It  is  our  father's  blood  upon  the  shrine ! 

"  And  ye,  alas  !  must  roam 

Far  from  vour  desolate  home, 
Far  from  lost  Ilium,  o'er  the  joyless  wave  ; 

Ye  may  not  from  those  bowers 

Gather  the  trampled  flowers, 
To  wreathe  sad  garlands  for  your  brethren's  grave. 

"Away,  away  !  the  gale 

Stirs  the  white  bosomed  sail ; 
Hence  ! — look  not  back  to  freedom  or  to  fame  ; 

Labor  must  be  your  doom, 

Night-watchings,  days  of  gloom. 
The  bitter  bread  of  tears,  the  bridal  couch  of  shame. 


') 


"  Even  now  some  Grecian  dame 
Beholds  the  signal  flame, 
And  waits  expectant  the  returning  fleet; 
'  Why  lingers  yet  my  lord  ? 
Hath  he  not  sheathed  his  sword — 
Will  he  not  bring  my  handmaid  to  my  feet?' 


240  CASSANDRA. 

"  Me  too  the  dark  Fates  call ; 

Their  sway  is  over  all, 
Captor  and  captive,  prison-house  and  throne ; — 

I  tell  of  others'  lot ; 

They  hear  me,  heed  me  not ! 
Hide,  angry  Phoebus,  hide  from  me  mine  own." 


SONNET    TO    ADA. 


The  touching  pathos  of  thy  low  sweet  voice 

Fell  on  my  heait,  like  dew  bn  wither'd  flowers, 

And  brought  such  memory  of  departed  hours 

As  made  me  weep — yet  in  my  tears  rejoice. 

For  one  I  loved — now  lost  to  me  for  ever — 

Breathed  even  so  the  soul  of  melody. 

And — since  that  voice  has  perish'd — never,  never, 

Till  I  heard  thine,  such  sounds  had  greeted  me. 

E'en  now  thy  tones,  recall'd  by  night  and  day, 

Linger  in  Memory's  echo-haunted  cell. 

Thrilling  sweet  agony  :  nor  know  I  well 

Whether  to  chide  them,  or  to  bid  them  stay. 

At  times  I  scarce  can  bear  the  pain'd  regret 

Which  they  excite — then  cry,  Oh  do  not  leave  me  yet ! 


MY  LITTLE  COUSINS. 

E  voi  ridete  ? — Certo  ridiamo. 

Gosi  fan  taUe. 

Laugh  on,  fair  cousins,  for  to  vou 

All  life  is  joyous  yet ; 
Your  hearts  have  all  things  to  pursue, 

And  nothing  to  regret ; 
And  every  flower  to  you  is  fair, 

And  every  month  is  May  ; 
You've  not  been  introduced  to  Care, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day ! 

Old  Time  will  fling  his  clouds  ere  long 

Upon  those  sunny  eyes  ; 
The  voice  whose  every  word  is  song, 
.    Will  set  itself  to  sighs ; 
Your  quiet  slumbers, — hopes  and  fears 

Will  chase  their  rest  away  ; 
To-morrow,  you'll  be  shedding  tears, — 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Oh  yes ;  if  any  truth  is  found 

In  the  dull  schoolman's  theme, — 

If  friendship  is  an  empty  sound, 

And  love  an  idle  dream, — 
II 


242  MY     LITTLE     COUSINS. 

If  mirth,  youth's  playmate,  feels  fatigue 
Too  soon  on  life's  long  way, 

At  least  he'll  run  with  you  a  league, — 
Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

Perhaps  your  eyes  may  grow  more  bright 

As  childhood's  hues  depart ; 
You  may  be  lovelier  to  the  sight. 

And  dearer  to  the  heart ; 
You  may  be  sinless  still,  and  see 

This  earth  still  green  and  gay ; 
But  what  you  are  you  will  not  be. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day  ! 

O'er  me  have  many  winters  crept, 

With  less  of  grief  than  joy  ; 
But  I  have  learned,  and  toiled,  and  wept, — 

I  am  no  more  a  boy  ! 
I've  never  had  the  gout,  't  is  true. 

My  hair  is  hardly  gray  ; 
But  now  I  cannot  laugh  like  you  ; 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day ! 

I  used  to  have  as  glad  a  face, 

As  shadowless  a  brow  : 
I  once  could  run  as  blithe  a  race 

As  you  are  running  now  ; 
But  never  mind  how  I  behave, 

Don't  interrupt  your  play, 
And  though  I  look  so  very  grave. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on,  to-day. 


ARMINIUS. 

Back,  back  ; — he  fears  not  foaming  flood 

Who  fears  not  steel  clad  line  : — 
No  warrior  thou  of  German  blood, 

No  brother  thou  of  mine. 
Go  earn  Rome's  chain  to  load  thy  neck, 

Her  gems  to  deck  thy  hilt ; 
And  blazon  honor's  hapless  wreck 

With  all  the  gauds  of  guilt. 

But  wouldst  thou  have  me  share  the  prey  ? 

By  all  that  I  have  done, 
The  Varian  bones  that  day  by  day 

Lie  whitening  in  the  sun  ; 
The  legion's  trampled  panoply, 

The  eagle's  shattered  wing, 
I  would  not  be  for  earth  or  sky 

So  scorned  and  mean  a  thing. 

Ho,  call  me  here  the  wizard,  boy, 

Of  dark  and  subtle  skill. 
To  agonize  Ijut  not  destroy, 

To  torture,  not  to  kill. 


244  A  R  M  I  N  I  U  S  . 

When  swords  are  out,  and  shriek  and  shout 

Leave  little  room  for  prayer, 
No  fetter  on  man's  arm  or  heart 

Hangs  half  so  heavy  there. 

I  curse  him  by  the  gifts  the  land 

Hath  won  from  him  and  Rome, 
The  riving  axe,  the  wasting  brand, 

Rent  forest  blazing  home. 
I  curse  him  by  our  country's  gods, 

The  terrible,  the  dark. 
The  breakers  of  the  Roman  rods, 

The  smiters  of  the  bark. 

Oh,  misery,  that  such  &  ban 

On  such  a  brow  should  be ! 
Why  comes  he  not  in  battle's  van 

His  country's  chief  to  be  ? 
To  stand  a  comrade  by  my  side. 

The  sharer  of  my  fame. 
And  worthy  of  a  brother's  pride. 

And  of  a  brother's  name  1 

But  it  is  past ! — where  heroes  press 

And  cowards  bend  the  knee, 
Arminius  is  not  brotherless. 

His  brethren  are  the  free. 
They  come  around  : — one  hour,  and  light 

Will  fade  from  tui-f  and  tide. 
Then  onward,  onward  to  the  fight, 

With  darkness  for  our  guide. 


ARMINIUS.  245 


To-night,  to-night,  when  we  shall  meet 

In  combat  face  to  face, 
Then  only  would  Arminius  greet 

The  renegade's  eml)race. 
The  canker  of  Rome's  guilt  shall  be 

Upon  his  d}»ng  name ; 
And  as  he  lived  in  slavery, 

So  shall  he  fall  in  shame. 


VERSES 

ON  SEEING  THE  SPEAKER  ASLEEP   IN   HIS   CHAIR   IN    ONE   OF  THE   DEBATES 
OF  THE  FIRST   REF0R3IED   PARLIAMENT. 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  't  is  surely  fair 

If  you  may  n't  in  your  bed,  that  you   should   in  your 

chair. 
Louder  and  longer  now  they,  grow, 
Tory  and  Radical,  Ay  and  No ; 
Talking  by  night  and  talking- by  day. 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may ! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker  ;  slumber  lies 

Light  and  brief  on  a  Speaker's  eyes. 

Eielden  or  Finn  in  a  minute  or  two 

Some  disorderly  thing  will  do  ; 

Riot  will  chase  repose  away — 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may  ! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker.     Sweet  to  men 
Is  the  sleep  that  cometh  but  now  and  then. 
Sweet  to  the  weary,  sw'eet  to  the  ill, 
Sweet  to  the  children  that  work  in  the  mill. 
You  have  more  need  of  repose  than  they — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may  ! 


VERSES.  241 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  Harvey  will  soon 
Move  to  abolish  the  sun  and  the  moon ; 
Hume  will  no  doubt  be  taking  the  sense 
Of  the  House  on  a  question  of  sixteen  pence. 
Statesmen  will  howl,  and  patriots  bray — 
Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may  ! 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  and  dream  of  the  time, 

When  loyalty  was  not  quite  a  crime, 

When  Grant  was  a  pupil  in  Canning's  school, 

And  Palmerston  fancied  Wood  a  fool. 

Lord,  how  principles  pass  away — 

Sleep,  Mr.  Speaker,  sleep  while  you  may. 


I  REMEMBER  HOW  MY  CHILDHOOD  FLEETED. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

How  my  childhood  fleeted  by — 
The  mirth  of  its  December, 

And  the  warmth  of  its  July ; 
On  my  brow,  love,  on  my  brow,  love, 

There  are  no  signs  of  care, 
But  my  pleasure's  are  not  now,  love, 

What  childhood's  pleasure's  were : 

Then  the  bowers,  then  the  bowers 

Were  as  blithe  as  blithe  could  be, 
And  all  their  radiant  flowers 

Were  coronals  for  me  : 
Gems  to-night,  love,  gems  to-nigh*;,  love, 

Are  gleaming  in*my  hair ; 
But  they  are  not  half  so  bright,  love. 

As  childhood's  roses  were. 

I  was  merry,  I  was  merry, 

When  my  little  lovers  came — 
With  a  lily,  or  a  cherry. 

Or  a  new  invented  game  : 
Now  I've  you,  love,  now  I've  you,  love, 

To  kneel  before  me  there ; 
But  you  know  you're  not  so  true,  love. 

As  childhood's  lovers  were. 


if 


MEMORY. 

Nessun  magglor  dolore 
Che  recordarsi  del  tempe  felici, 
Nella  miseria. 

Dante. 

I. 

Stand  on  a  funeral  mound, 

Far,  far  from  all  that  love  thee  ; 
With  a  barren  heath  around, 

And  a  cypress  bower  above  thee : 
And  think,  while  the  sad  wind  frets, 

And  the  night  in  cold  gloom  closes, 
Of  spring,  and  spring's  sweet  violets, 

Of  summer,  and  summer's  roses. 

II. 

Sleep  where  the  thunders  fly 

Across  the  tossing  billow ; 
Thy  canopy  the  sky, 

And  the  lonely  deck  thy  pillow : 
And  dream,  while  the  chill  sea-foam 

In  mockery  dashes  o'er  thee. 

Of  the  cheerful  hearth,  and  the  quiet  home, 

And  the  kiss  of  her  that  })ore  thee. 
11* 


250  MEMORY. 


in. 


Watch  in  the  deepest  cell 

Of  the  foeman's  dungeon  tower, 
Till  hope's  most  cherished  spell 

Has  lost  its  cheering  power  ; 
And  sing,  while  the  galling  chain 

On  every  stiff  limb  freezes, 
Of  the  huntsman  hurrying  o'er  the  plain, 

Of  the  breath  of  the  mountain  breezes. 


IV. 


Talk  of  the  minstrel's  lute, 
The  warrior's  high  endeavor, 

When  the  honeyed  lips  arc  mute. 

And  the  strong  arm  crushed  for  ever  ; 

Look  back  to  the  summer  sun, 

From  the  mist  of  dark  December ; 

Then  say  to  the  broken-hearted  one, 
'Tis  pleasant  to  remember !" 


((  51 


TELL  HIM  I  LOVE  HIM  YET. 

Tell  him,  I  love  him  yet, 
Ah,  in  that  joyous  time  ! 

Tell  him,  I  ne'er  forget. 

Though  memory  now  be  crime. 

Tell  him,  when  fades  the  light 

Upon  the  earth  and  sea, 
I  dream  of  him  by  night — 

He  must  not  dream  of  me ! 

Green,  green  upon  his  brow 
The  laurel  wreath  shall  be — 

Although  that  laurel  now 

Must  not  be  shared  with  me  ! 

Tell  him  to  smile  again 

In  pleasure's  dazzling  throng, 

To  wear  another's  chain. 
To  praise  another's  song ! 

Before  the  loveliest  there, 
I'd  have  him  bend  the  knee. 

And  breathe  to  her  the  prayer 
He  used  to  breathe  to  me ! 


252  TELL     HIM     I     LOVE     HIM     YET. 

Tell  him,  that  day  by  day, 
Life  looks  to  me  more  dim — 

I  falter  when  I  pray — 
Although  I  pray  for  him. 

And  bid  him  when  I  die, 
Come  to  our  fav'rite  tree — 

I  shall  not  hear  him  sigh — 
— Nor  let  him  sigh  for  me ! 


STANZAS. 

"  She  sung  of  Love,  while  o'er  her  lyre 

The  rosy  rays  of  evemng  felL" — Moore's  Mdodks. 

If  thou  woiild'st  pause  to  wake  a  string- 
That  will  not  beai-  to  play, — 

If  thou  would'st  yet  unloose  the  wing 
So  chainless  yesterday ; 

If  thou  be'st  not  that  heartless  one, 
And  false  as  thou  art  bright — 

With  sniiles  for  all — and  tears  for  none — 
Sing  not — sing  not  to-night ! 

I  may  have  sought  what  all  would  seek, 

And  knelt  where  all  would  kneel ; 
Tlie  pulse  might  throb — the  heart  be  weak- 

And  yet  the  lip  conceal ; 
And  had  I  never  heard  the  song, 

Or  paused  upon  the  tone, — 
That  pulse  might  yet  be  free  and  strong, 

That  secret  still  my  own. 

I  might  be  formed  to  love,  and  feel 

Love — life — and  all,  decay, — 
I  was  not  made  to  weep,  and  kneel 

As  I  have  knelt  to-day : 
[253] 


254  STANZAS. 

And  had  I  deemed  the  heart  I  nursed 
Could  sue  for  such  a  healing, 

I  would  have  seen  it  wither  first, 
Ere  I  had  stooped  to  kneeling. 

I'll  meet  thee  where  the  gayest  meet ; 

One  look  shall  not  distress ; — 
I'll  greet  thee  as  the  others  greet, 

With  words  as  meaningless ; — 
I'll  try  to  feel  as  heretofore. 

Or  deaden  feeling's  spring; — 
So  thou  wilt  sing  those  songs  no  more 

Where  I  may  hear  thee  sing. 

Yet,  one,  thou  said'st  hut  yesternight, 

Thy  lips  should  learn  for  me ! — 
Oh !  when  thou  sing'st,  and  all  is  bright 

Around  thy  path — and  thee — 
If  thou  dost  feel  but  half  I  felt 

Where  first  those  echoes  rung  ; 
I  wiW  not  mourn  that  I  have  knelt, 

Or  weep  that  thou  hast  sung. 
Jan.  2lst,  1829. 


STANZAS. 

WEITTEN'   IN   LADY   MTHTLE'S   BOCCACCIO. 


In  these  gay  pages  there  is  food 
For  every  mind,  and  every  mood, 

Fair  Lady,  if  you  dare  to  spell  them : 
Now  merriment,  now  grief  jDrevaUs ; 
But  yet  the  best  of  all  the  tales 

Is  of  the  young  group  met  to  tell  them. 

II. 

Oh,  was  it  not  a  pleasant  thought, 
To  set  the  pestilence  at  nought, 

Chatting  among  sweet  streams  and  flowers ; 
Of  jealous  husbands,  fickle  wives. 
Of  all  the  tricks  which  love  contrives, 

To  see  through  veils,  and  talk  through  tow- 
ers? 

III. 

Lady,  they  say  tne  fearful  guest, 
Onward,  still  onward,  to  the  west, 

[255] 


250  STANZAS. 

Poised  on  his  suljjlinrous  wings,  advances ; 
Who,  on  the  ft-ozen  river's  banks, 
Has  thinned  the  Russian  despot's  ranks, 

And  marred  the  might  of  Warsaw's  lances. 

rv. 

Another  year — a  brief,  brief  year ! 
And  lo  !   the  fell  destroyer  here, 

He  comes  with  all  his  gloomy  terrors  ; 
Then  guilt  will  read  the  properest  books, 
And  folly  wear  the  soberest  looks. 

And  virtue  shudder  at  her  errors. 


V. 

And  there'll  be  sermons  in  the  street ; 
And  every  friend  and  foe  we  meet 

Will  wear  the  dismal  garb  of  sorrow ; 
And  quacks  will  send  their  lies  about, 
And  weary  Halford  will  find  out. 

He  must  have  four  new  bays  to-morrow. 

VI. 

But  you  shall  fly  from  these  dark  signs, 
As  did  those  haj^py  Florentines, 

Ere  from  your  cheek  one  rose  is  faded ; 
And  hide  your  youth  and  loveliness 
In  some  bright  garden's  green  recess. 

By  walls  fenced  round,  by  huge  trees  shaded ; 


STANZAS.  257 


YII. 


There  brooks  shall  dance  in  light  along, 
And  birds  shall  trill  their  constant  song 

Of  pleasure,  from  their  leafy  dwelling ; 
You  shall  have  music,  novels,  toys  ; 
But  still  the  chiefest  of  your  joys 

Must  be,  fair  Lady,  story  telling. 

vin. 

Be  cautious  how  you  choose  your  men  ; 
Don't  look  for  people  of  the  pen, 

Scholars  who  read,  or  write  the  papers ; 
Don't  think  of  wits,  who  talk  to  dine, 
Who  drink  their  patron's  newest  wine, 

And  cure  their  patron's  newest  vapours. 

IX. 

Avoid  all  youths  who  toil  for  praise 
By  quoting  Liston's  last  new  phrase ; 

Or  sigh  to  leave  high  fame  behind  them ; 
For  swallowing  swords,  or  dancing  jigs, 
Or  imitating  ducks  and  pigs ; 

Take  men  of  sense, — if  you  can  find  them. 

X. 

Live,  laugh,  tell  stories ;  ere  they're  told, 
New  themes  succeed  upon  the  old; 

Now  follies  come,  new  faults,  new  fashions ; 


258 


STAXZAS. 


An  hour,  a  minute,  will  siipjily 
To  thouglit,  a  folio  history 

Of  bliglited  hopes,  and  thwarted  passions. 


XI. 


King  Death,  when  he  has  snatched  away 
Drunkards  from  brand}^,  Dukes  from  j^lay, 

And  Common-councihnen  from  turtle  ; 
Shall  break  liis  dart  in  Grosvenor  Square, 
And  mutter  in  his  fierce  despair, 

"  Why,  what's  become  of  Lady  Myrtle  ?" 


EPITAPH* 


ON    THE    LATE    KING     OF    THE    SANDWICH    ISLANDS. 


[Translated  from  the  original  of  Crazee  Katefee,  his  Majesty's  Poet 

Laureate.] 


Beneath  the  marble,  mud,  or  moss, 

\\  hiche'er  his  subjects  shall  determine, 
Entombed  in  eulogies  and  dross, 

The  Island  King  is  food  for  vermin ; 
Prisoned  by  scribblers  and  by  salt, 

From  Lethe  and  sepulchral  vapors. 
His  body  fills  his  father's  vault, 

His  character  the  daily  papers. 

Well  was  he  framed  for  royal  seat ; 

Kind  to  the  meanest  of  his  creatures, 
With  tender  heart  and  tender  feet. 

And  open  purse  and  open  features  ; 
The  ladies  say  who  laid  him  out, 

And  earned  thereby  the  usual  pensions, 
They  never  wreathed  a  shroud  about 

A  corpse  of  more  genteel  dimensions. 
*  Written  on  the  fleatli  of  George  IV. 


2()0 


EPITAPH, 


He  warred  with  half  a  score  of  foes, 

And  shone — by  proxy — in  the  quarrel; 
Enjoyed  hard  fights  and  soft  repose, 

And  deathless  debt,  and  deathless  laurel  : 
His  enemies  were  scalped  and  flayed. 

Whene'er  his  soldiers  were  victorious  ; 
And  widows  wept,  and  paupers  paid, 

To  make  their  Sovereign  Ruler  glorious. 

And  days  were  set  apart  for  thanks. 

And  prayers  were  said  by  pious  readers  ; 
And  laurel  lavished  on  the  ranks. 

And  laud  M'as  lavished  on  their  leaders  ; 
Events  are  writ  by  History's  pen  : 

Though  causes  are  too  much  to  care  for: — 
Fame  talks  about  the  where  and  when, 

While  Folly  asks  the  why  and  wherefore. 

In  peace  he  was  intensely  gay, 

And  indefatigably  busy  ; 
Preparing  gew-gaws  every  day. 

And  shows  to  make  his  subjects  dizzy : 
And  hearing  the  report  of  guns, 

And  signing  the  report  of  jailors, 
And  making  up  receipts  for  buns. 

And  patterns  for  the  army  tailors  ; 

And  building  carriages  and  boats. 

And  streets,  and  chapels,  and  pavilions, 

And  regulating  all  the  coats. 

And  all  the  principles  of  millions  j 


EPITAPH.  2G] 

And  drinking  homilies  and  gin, 

And  chewing  pork  and  adulation, 
And  looking  backwards  upon  sin, 

And  looking  forwards  to  salvation. 

The  people,  in  his  happy  reign, 

Were  blest  beyond  all  other  nations  ; 
Unharmed  by  foreign  axe  or  chain. 

Unhealed  by  civil  innovations  ; 
They  served  the  usual  logs  and  stones, 

With  all  the  usual  rites  and  terrors  ; 
And  swallowed  all  their  fathers'  bones, 

And  swallowed  all  their  fathers'  errors.* 

When  the  fierce  mob,  with  clubs  and  knives, 

All  vowed  that  nothing  should  content  them, 
But  that  their  representatives 

Should  actually  represent  them  : 
He  interposed  the  proper  checks, 

By  sending  troops  with  drums  and  banners 
To  cut  their  speeches  short,  and  necks, 

And  break  their  heads  to  mend  their  manners. 

And  when  Dissension  flung  iier  stain 

Upon  the  light  of  Hymen's  altar, 
And  Destiny  made  Cupid's  chain 

As  galling  as  the  hangman's  halter, 

*  In  the  Sandwich  Islands,  no  greater  mark  of  respect  can  be  paid 
to  the  parent,  by  the  koii,  tliiin  the  swullowiiijr  of  part  of  his  niortaJ 
remains.     .More  civilized  niitioiia  arc  content  with  the  prejudices. 


262  EPITAPH. 

He  passed  a  most  domestic  life, 

By  many  mistresses  befriended, 
And  did  not  put  away  his  wife 

For  fear  the  priest  should  be  offended.* 

And  thus  at  last  he  sunk  to  rest 

Amid  the  blessings  of  his  people  ; 
And  sighs  were  heard  from  every  breast, 

And  bells  were  tolled  from  every  steeple ; 
And  loud  was  every  public  throng 

His  brilliant  character  adorning. 
And  poets  raised  a  mourning  song. 

And  clothiers  raised  the  price  of  mourning. 

His  funeral  was  very  gral:^d, 

Followed  by  many  robes  and  maces. 
And  all  the  great  ones  of  the  land, 

Struggling,  as  heretofore,  fur  places  ; 
And  every  loyal  Minister 

Was  there  with  signs  of  purse-felt  sorrow, 
Save  Pozzy,  his  lord  chancellor. 

Who  promised  to  attend  to-morrow. 

Peace  to  his  dust !  his  fostering  care 

By  grateful  hearts  shall  long  be  cherished, 

And  all  his  subjects  shall  declare 

They  lost  a  grinder  when  he  perished.f 

*  '\Vhen  a  native  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  is  weary  of  his  first  spouse, 
he  in:iy  bring  home  another,  but  he  may  not  divorce  his  original 
cliosen  consort. 

+  ^Vlluu  the  Sovereign  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  dies,  each  of  his 


EPITAPH.  263 

They  who  shall  look  upon  the  lead, 

In  which  a  people's  love  hath  shrined  him, 

Shall  say,  when  all  the  worst  is  said. 
Perhaps  he  leaves  a  worse  behind  him  ! 


subjects  shows  bis  respect  for  the  deceased  Prince,  by  extracting  a 
viihiable  tooth  from  his  head. 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  BRAZEN  HEAD. 

"I  THINK,  whatever  mortals  crave, 

With  impotent  endeavor, 
A  wieath— a  rank — a  throne — a  grave — 

The  world  goes  round  for  ever  ; 
I  think  that  life  is  not  too  long. 

And  therefore  I  determine 
That  many  people  read  a  song. 

Who  will  not  read  a  sermon. 

"  I  think  you've  look'd  through  many  hearts, 

And  mused  on  many  actions. 
And  studied  man's  component  parts. 

And  nature's  compound  fractions; 
I  think  you've  picked  up  truth  by  bits 

From  foreigner  and  neighbor, 
I  think  the  world  has  lost  its  wits, 

And  you  have  lost  your  labor. 

"  I  think  the  studies  of  the  wise, 
The  hero's  noisy  quarrel, 
The  majesty  of  woman's  eyes, 
The  poet's  cherished  laurel ; 


CHANT  OF  THE  BRAZEN  HEAD.     265 

And  all  that  makes  us  lean  or  fat, 
And  all  that  charms  or  troubles — 

This  bubble  is  more  bright  than  that, 
But  still  they  all  are  bubbles. 

"  I  think  the  thing  you  call  Kenown, 

The  unsubstantial  vapor 
For  which  a  soldier  burns  a  town. 

The  sonneteer  a  taper, 
Is  like  the  mist  which,  as  he  flies, 

The  horseman  leaves  behind  him  ; 
He  cannot  mark  its  wreaths  arise, 

Or,  if  he  does,  they  blind  him. 

"  1  think  one  nod  of  Mistress  Chance 

Makes  creditors  of  debtors. 
And  shifts  the  funeral  for  the  dance, 

The  sceptre  for  the  fetters  ; 
I  think  that  Fortune's  favored  guest, 

May  live  to  gnaw  the  platters ; 
And  he  that  wears  the  purple  vest 

May  wear  the  rags  and  tatters. 

"  I  think  the  Tories  love  to  buy 

'  Your  Lordships'  and  '  Your  Graces,' 

By  loathing  common  honesty, 

And  lauding  common  places  ; 

I  think  that  some  arc  very  wise. 

And  some  arc  very  funny. 

And  some  grow  rich  by  telling  lies, 

And  some  by  telling  money. 
]2 


26G  CHANT     OF     THE     BRAZEN     HEAD. 

"  I  think  the  Whigs  are  wicked  knaves, 

And  very  like  the  Tories, 
Who  doubt  that  Britain  rules  the  waves, 

And  ask  the  price  of  glories ; 
I  think  that  many  fret  and  fume 

At  what  their  friends  are  planning, 
And  Mr.  Hume  hates  Mr.  Brougham 

As  much  as  Mr.  Canning. 

"  I  think  that  friars  and  their  hoods. 

Their  doctrines  and  their  maggots, 
Have  lighted  up  too  many  feuds, 

And  far  too  many  fagots  ; 
I  think  while  zealots  fast  and  frown, 

And  fight  for  two  dT  seven, 
That  there  are  fifty  roads  to  town. 

And  rather  more  to  Heaven. 

"  I  think  that,  thanks  to  Pagot's  lance, 

And  thanks  to  Chester's  learning, 
The  hearts  that  burned  for  fame  in  France, 

At  home  are  safe  from  burning  ; 
I  think  the  Pope  is  on  his  back, 

And,  though  'tis  fun  to  shake  hiiji, 
I  think  the  Devil  not  so  black. 

As  many  people  make  him. 

"  I  think  that  Love  is  like  a  play 

Where  tears  and  smiles  are  blended, 
Or  like  a  faithless  April  day. 

Whose  shine  with  shower  is  ended  ; 


CHANT  OF  THE  BRAZEN  HEAD.     267 

Like  Colnbrook  pavement,  rather  rough, 

Like  trade,  exposed  to  losses. 
And  like  a  Highland  plaid,  all  stuff, 

And  very  full  of  crosses. 

"  I  think  the  world,  though  dark  it  be. 

Has  aye  one  rapturous  pleasure, 
Conceal'd  in  life's  monotony. 

For  those  who  seek  the  treasure  ; 
One  planet  in  a  starless  night — 

One  blossom  on  a  briar — 
One  friend  not  quite  a  hypocrite — 

One  woman  not  a  liar  ! 

"  I  think  poor  beggars  court  St.  Giles, 

Rich  beggars  court  St.  Stephen  ; 
And  Death  looks  down  with  nods  and  smiles, 

And  makes  the  odds  all  even; 
I  think  some  die  upon  the  field. 

And  some  upon  the  billow, 
And  some  are  laid  beneath  a  shield, 

And  some  beneath  a  willow. 

•'  I  think  that  very  few  have  sigh'd, 

When  Fate  at  last  has  found  them, 
Though  bitter  foes  were  by  their  side. 

And  barren  moss  around  them  ; 
I  think  that  some  have  died  of  drought, 

And  some  have  died  of  drinking  ; — 
I  think  that  naught  is  worth  a  thought, 

And  I'm  a  fool  for  thinking !" 


CHARADES. 


I, 


There  was  a  time  young  Roland  thought 

His  huntsman's  call  was  worth  a  dozen 
Of  those  sweet  notes  his  ear  had  caught 

In  boyhood,  from  his  blue-eyed  cousin. 
How  is  it  710W  that  by  my  first 

Silent  he  sits,  nor  cares"to  follow 
His  deep-mouth'd  stag-hound's  matin  l)urst, 

His  clear-ton'd  huntsman's  joyous  hollo  1 

How  is  it  now,  when  Isabel 

Breathes  one  low  note  of  those  sweet  numbers, 
That  every  thought  of  hill  and  dell, 

And  all — save  that  sweet  minstrel — slumbers. 
Why  does  he  feel  that  long,  dull  pain 

Within  my  Second  when  she  leaves  him  ? 
When  shall  his  falcon  fly  again  1 

When  shall  he  break  the  spell  that  grieves  him  ? 

And  Isabel — how  is  it,  too, 

That  sadness  o'er  that  young  brow  closes  ? 
How  hath  her  eye  lost  half  its  blue? 

How  have  her  cheeks  lost  all  their  roses  ? 


CHARADES.  269 

Still  on  her  lute  sweet  numbers  dwell, 

Still  magic  seems  the  breath  that  sways  it ; 

But,  oh  !  how  changed  the  tone  and  spell. 
If  Roland  be  not  there  to  praise  it ! 

One  summer's  eve,  while  Isabel 

Sang  till  the  starlight  came  to  greet  her, 
A  tear  from  Roland's  eyelid  fell. 

And  warp'd  the  string  and  spoil'd  the  metre. 
She  could  not  sing  another  note  ; 

Wherefore,  or  why,  I've  not  a  notion ; 
And  he — the  swelling  in  his  throat 

Seemed  working  from  some  poisonous  potion. 

I  know  not — I — how  sigh  or  tear 

Cause  these  hysterical  effusions  ; 
But  from  that  eve,  one  little  year 

Witnessed,  you'll  say,  such  strange  conclusions. 
Beside  my  All  I  saw  them  sit ; 

And  that  same  lute  of  song  so  tender — ■ 
A  little  child  was  thumping  it 

With  all  his  might — against  the  fender  ! 

And  Isabel — she  sung  no  more. 

But  ever  that  small  urchin  followed ; 
Who  with  the  lute  upon  the  floor, 

Like  a  young  dryad,  whooped  and  holloed  ! 
And  Roland's  hound  is  heard  again, 

And  Roland's  hawk  hath  loosened  jesses  ! 
But  Roland's  smile  is  brightest  when 

Beside  my  All  hi-;  boy  he  presses. 


270  CHARADES. 

II. 

Sir  Harry  is  famed  for  his  amiable  way 
Of  talking  a  deal  when  he's  nothing  to  say : 
Sir  Harry  will  sit  hy  our  Rosalie's  side, 
And  whisper  from  morn  mitil  eventide  ; 
Yet,  if  you  would  ask  of  that  maiden  fair 
What  Sir  Harry  said  while  he  lingered  there  ; 
Were  the  maiden  as  clever  as  L,  E.  L. 
Not  a  word  that  he  said  could  the  maiden  tell ! 

Sir  Harry  has  ears,  and  Sir  Harry  has  eyes, 

And  Sir  Harry  has  teeth  of  the  usual  size  ; 

His  nose  is  a  nose  of  the  every-day  sort — 

Not  exceedingly  long,  nor  exsessively  short ; 

And  his  breath,  tho'  resembling  in  naught  the  "  sweet 

south," 
Is  inhaled  through  his  lips,  and  exhaled  from  his  mouth; 
And  yet  from  the  hour  that  Sir  Harry  was  nursed, 
People  said  that  his  head  was  no  more  than  my  First ! 

Sir  Harry  has  ringlets  he  curls  every  day, 
And  a  fortune  he  spends  in  pomatums,  they  say  ; 
He  is  just  such  a  youth  as  our  Rosalie  bides  with. 
When  she  has'nt  got  me  to  take  waltzes  or  rides  with; 
But  not  such  a  one  as,  I  ween,  she  would  choose. 
Were  a  youth  that  /  know  to  be  caught  in  the  noose ; 
For   I've  oft  heard  her  say — tho'  so  flighty  she's  reck- 
oned— 
That  she'd  ne'er  take  a  bridegroom  who  hadn't  my  Se- 
cond ! 


CHARADES.  271 

Sir  Harry  sat  out,  the  last  visit  he  paid, 

Prom  when  breakfast  was  over,  till  dinner  was  laid ! 

He  talked,  in  his  usual  lady-like  way, 

Of  the  ball  and  the  ballet — the  park  and  the  play. 

Little  Rosa,  who  hoped,  ere  the  whole  day  had  passed, 

That  the  youth  would  speak  out.  to  the  purpose,  at  last, 

When  evening  at  length  was  beginning  to  fall, 

Declared  that  Sir  Harry  was  naught  but  my  All ! 


III. 

Morning  is  beaming  o'er  brake  and  bower. 
Hark !  to  the  chimes  from  yonder  tower. 
Call  ye  my  First  from  her  chamber  now, 
With  her  snowy  veil  and  her  jeweled  brow, 

Lo  !  whore  my  Second,  in  gorgeous  array, 
Leads  from  his  stable  her  beautiful  bay. 
Looking  for  her,  as  he  curvets  by, 
With  an  arching  neck,  and  a  glancing  eye. 

Spread  is  the  banquet,  and  studied  the  song; 

Ranged  in  meet  order  the  menial  throng, 

Jerome  is  ready  with  book  and  stole. 

And  the  maidens  flhig  flowers,  but  where  is  my  Whole. 

Look  to  the  hill,  is  he  climbing  its  side  ? 
Look  to  the  stream — is  he  crossing  its  tide  1 
Out  on  the  false  one  !  he  comes  not  yet — 
Lady,  forget  him,  yea,  scorn  and  forget. 


272  CHARADES. 

IV. 

"  My  first  was  dark  o'er  earth  and  air, 

As  dark  as  she  could  be  ! 
The  stars  that  gemmed  her  ebon  hair 

Were  only  two  or  three  : 
King  Cole  saw  twice  as  many  there 

As  you  or  I  could  see. 

"  '  Away,  King  Cole,'  mine  hostess  said, 
'  Flagon  and  flask  are  dry  ; 
Your  nag  is  neighing  in  the  shed, 
For  he  knows  a  storm  is  nigh.' 
She  set  my  Second  on  his  head, 
And  she  set  it  all  awry.",. 


V. 


Come  from  my  First,  ay,  come ! 

The  battle  dawn  is  nigh ; 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  the  thund'ring  drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die  ! 
Fight  as  thy  father  fought, 

Fall  as  thy  father  fell. 
Thy  task  is  taught,  thy  shroud  is  wrought ; 

So — forward  !  and  farewell ! 

Toll  ye,  my  Second  !  toll ! 

Fling  high  the  flambeau's  light ; 
And  sing  the  hymn  for  a  parted  soul, 

Beneath  the  silent  night ! 


CHARADES.  273 

The  wreath  upon  his  head, 

The  cross  upon  his  breast, 
Let  the  prayer  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed: 

So — take  him  to  his  rest ! 

Call  ye  my  Whole,  ay,  call ! 

The  lord  of  lute  and  lay ; 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day ; 
Go,  call  him  by  his-name ; 

No  fitter  hand  may  crave 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  grave. 


VI. 

Sir  Hilary  charged  at  Agincourt, — 

Sooth  'twas  an  awful  day  ! 
And  though  in  that  old  age  of  sport 
The  rufflers  of  the  camp  and  court 

Had  little  time  to-pray, 
'Tis  said  Sir  Hilary  muttered  there 
Two  syllables  by  way  of  prayer. 

My  First  to  all  the  brave  and  proud 
Who  see  to-morrow's  sun  ; 

My  Next  with  her  cold  and  quiet  cloud 

To  those  who  find  their  dewy  shroud 
Bcfitre  to-day's  be  done  ; 

And  both  together  to  all  blue  eyes 

That  weep  when  a  warrior  nol^ly  dies. 

12*  ^ 


274 


CHARADES. 


VII. 


He  talked  of  daggers  and  of  darts, 

Of  passions  and  of  pains, 
Of  weeping  eyes  and  wounded  hearts, 

Of  kisses  and  of  chains ; 
He  said,  though  love  was  kin  to  grief, 

He  was  not  born  to  grieve  ; 
He  said,  though  many  rued  belief, 

She  safely  might  believe  ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head. 

And  swore,  by  yea  and  nay, 
]\Iy  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said. 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 

He  said,  my  First — whose  silent  car 

Was  slowly  wandering  by. 
Veiled  in  a  vapor  faint  and  far 

Though  the  unfathomed  sky — 
Was  like  the  smile  whose  rosy  light 

Across  her  young  lips  passed, 
Yet  oh  !  it  was  not  half  so  bright. 

It  changed  not  half  so  fast ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head, 

And  swore,  by  yea  and  nay. 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said, 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 

And  then  he  set  a  cypress  wreath 

Upon  his  raven  hair. 
And  drew  his  rapier  from  its  sheath, 

Which  made  the  lady  stare ; 


CHARADES, 


And  said,  his  life-blood's  purple  flow 

Mj  second  there  should  dim, 
If  she  he  loved  and  worshipped  so 

Would  only  weep  for  him  ; 
But  still  the  lady  shook  her  head. 

And  swore  by  yea  and  nay, 
My  Whole  was  all  that  he  had  said, 

And  all  that  he  could  say. 


VIII. 


My  First  came  forth  in  booted  state. 

For  fair  Valencia  bound  ; 
And  smiled  to  feel  my  Second''s  weight, 

And  hear  its  creakinir  sound. 


» 


"  And  here's  a  goaler  sweet,"  quoth  he, 
"  You  cannot  bribe  or  cozen  ; 

To  keep  one  ward  in  custody 
Wise  men  will  foree  a  dozen." 


'fc)^ 


But  daybreak  saw  a  lady  guide 

My  Whole  across  the  plain, 
With  a  handsome  cavalier  beside, 

To  hold  her  bridle-rein  : 

And  "  blessings  on  the  bonds,"  quoth  he, 
"  Which  wrinkled  age  imposes. 

If  woman  must  a  prisoner  be, 
Ilcr  chain  should  be  of  roses." 


276  CHARADES. 

IX. 

I  graced  Don  Pedro's  revelry, 

All  dressed  in  fire  and  feather, 
When  loveluiess  and  chivalry, 

Were  met  to  feast  tosether. 
He  flung  the  slave  who  moved  the  lid, 

A  purse  of  maravedis  ; 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 

He  vowed  a  vow,  that  noble  knight, 

Before  he  went  to  table, 
To  make  his  only  sport  the  fight. 

His  only  couch  the  stable. 
Till  he  had  dragged  as  he  was  bid 

Five  score  of  Turks  to  Cadiz  ;— 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 

To  ride  through  mountains,  where  my  First 

A  banquet  would  be  reckoned ; 
Through  deserts,  where  to  quench  their  thirst 

Men  vainly  turn  my  Second. 
To  leave  the  gates  of  fair  Madrid, 

And  dare  the  gates  of  Hades ; — 
And  this  that  gallant  Spaniard  did, 

For  me  and  for  the  ladies. 


CHARADES.  277 


Alas  !  for  that  forgotten  day 

When  Chivalry  was  nourished, 
When  none  but  friars  learned  to  pray 

And  beef  and  beauty  flourished  ! 
And  fraud  in  kings  was  held  accurst, 

And  falsehood  sin  was  reckoned, 
And  mighty  chargers  bore  my  First, 

And  fat  monks  wore  my  Second  ! 

Oh,  then  I  carried  sword  and  shield^ 

And  casque  with  flaunting  feather, 
And  earned  my  spurs  on  battle  field. 

In  winter  and  rough  weather  ; 
And  polished  many  a  sonnet  up 

To  ladies'  eyes  and  tresses. 
And  learned  to  drain  my  father's  cup. 

And  loose  my  falcon's  jesses : 


But  dim  is  now  my  grandeur's  gleam 

The  mongrel  mob  grows  prouder ; 
And  everything  is  done  by  steam, 

And  men  are  killed  by  powder. 
And  now  I  feel  my  swift  decay. 

And  give  unheeded  orders, 
And  rot  in  paltry  state  away. 

With  sheriffs  and  recorders. 


278 


CHARADES, 


XI. 

On  the  casement  frame  the  whid  beat  hiVh. 
Never  a  star  was  in  the  sky  ; 
All  Kenneth  Hold  was  wrapt  in  gloom, 
And  Sir  Everard  slept  in  the  Haunted  Room. 

I  sat  and  sang  beside  his  bed  ; 
Never  a  single  word  I  said, 

Yet  did  I  scare  his  slumber ; 
And  a  fitful  light  in  his  eye-ball  glisten'd, 
And  his  cheek  grew  pale  as  he  lay  and  listen'd, 
For  he  thought,  or  he  dream'd,  that  fiends  and  fays 
Were  reckoning  o'er  his  fleeting  days, 

And  telling  out  their  number. 
Was  it  my  Second's  ceaseless  tone  1 
On  my  Second's  hand  he  laid  his  own  : 
The  hand  that  trembled  in  his  grasp, 
Was  crush'd  by  his  convulsive  clasp. 

Sir  Everard  did  not  fear  my  First ; 

He  had  seen  it  in  shapes  that  men  deem  worst 

In  many  a  field  and  flood  ; 
Yet,  in  the  darkness  of  his  dread, 
His  tongue  was  parch'd,  and  his  reason  fled ; 
And  he  watch'd  as  the  lamp  burned  low  and  dim, 
To  see  some  Phantom  gaunt  and  grim 

Come,  dabbled  o'er  with  blood. 


CHARADES.  279 

Sir  Everard  kneel'd,  and  strove  to  pray, 
He  pray'd  for  light,  and  he  prayed  for  day, 

Till  terror  check'd  his  prayer  ; 
And  ever  I  mutter'd  clear  and  well 
"  Click,  click,"  like  a  tolling  bell, 
Till,  bound  in  Fancy's  magic  spell, 

Sir  Everard  fainted  there. 


XII. 


The  canvas  rattled  on  the  mast, 

As  rose  the  swelling  sail ; 
And  gallantly  the  vessel  passed 

Before  the  cheering  gale  ; 
And  on  my  First  Sir  Florice  stood, 

As  the  far  shore  faded  now. 
And  looked  upon  the  lengthening  flood 

With  a  pale  and  pensive  brow  : 
"  When  I  shall  bear  thy  silken  glove 

Where  the  proudest  Moslem  flee. 
My  lady  love,  my  lady  love, 

Oh,  waste  one  thought  on  me  !" 

Sir  Florice  lay  in  a  dungeon  cell, 

With  none  to  soothe  or  save ; 
And  high  above  his  chamber  fell 

The  echo  of  the  wave  ; 
But  still  he  struck  my  Second  there. 

And  bade  its  tones  renew 
Those  hours  when  every  hue  was  fair. 

And  every  hope  was  true : — 


280  CHARADES. 

"  If  still  your  angel  footsteps  move, 
Where  mine  may  never  be, 
My  lady  love,  my  lady  love, 
Oh,  dream  one  dream  of  me !" 

Not  long  the  Christian  captive  pined  !- 

My  Whole  was  round  his  neck  ; 
A  sadder  necklace  ne'er  was  twined, 

So  white  a  skin  to  deck  ; 
Queen  Folly  ne'er  was  yet  content 

With  gems  or  golden  store, 
But  he  who  wears  this  ornament, 

Will  rarely  sigh  for  more  ; — 
"  My  spirit  to  the  Heaven  above. 

My  body  to  the  sea, 
My  heart  to  thee,  my  lady  love. 

Oh,  weep  one  tear  for  me  !" 


XIII. 

Uncouth  was  I  of  face  and  form. 

But  strong  to  blast  and  blight, 
By  pestilence  or  thunderstorm. 

By  famine  or  by  fight ; 
Not  a  warrior  went  to  the  battle  plain, 

Not  a  pilot  steered  the  ship. 
That  did  not  look  in  doubt  and  pain, 
For  an  omen  of  havoc  or  hurricane, 

To  my  dripping  brow  and  lip. 


CHARADES.  281 

Within  my  Second's  dark  recess 

In  silent  pomp  I  dwelt ; 
Before  the  mouth  in  lowliness 

My  rude  adorers  knelt ; 
And  ever  the  shriek  rang  loud  within, 

And  ever  the  red  blood  ran  ; 
And  amid  the  sin  and  smoke  and  din, 
I  sat  with  a  changeless  endless  grin, 

Forging  my  First  for  man. 

My  priests  are  rotting  in  their  grave, 

My  shrine  is  silent  now, 
There  is  no  victim  in  my  cave. 

No  crown  upon  my  brow  ; 
Nothing  is  left  but  dust  and  clay 

Of  all  that  was  divine  ; 
My  name  and  my  memory  pass  away : — 
And  yet  this  bright  and  glorious  day 

Is  called  by  mortals  mine  ! 


XIV. 


Lord  Ronald  by  the  rich  torchlight 

Feasted  his  vassals  tall ; 
And  he  broached  my  First,  that  jovial  knight, 

Within  his  bannered  hall : 
The  icd  stream  went  from  wood  to  can, 

And  then  from  can  to  mouth, 
And  the  deuce  a  man  know  liow  it  ran, 

Nor  heeded,  north  or  south  : 


282  CHARADES. 

*'  Let  the  health  go  wide,"  Lord  Ronald  cried, 

As  he  saw  the  river  flow — 
"  One  health  to-night  to  the  noblest  Bride, 

And  one  to  the  stoutest  Foe !" 

Lord  Ronald  kneeled,  when  the  morning  came. 

Low  in  his  mistress'  bower ; 
And  she  gave  him  my  Second,  that  beauteous  dame, 

For  a  spell  in  danger's  hour  : 
Her  silver  shears  were  not  at  hand  ; 

And  she  smiled  a  playful  smile, 
As  she  cleft  it  with  her  lover's  brand, 

And  grew  not  pale  the  while : 
"  And  ride,  and  ride,"  Lord  Ronald  cried, 

As  he  kissed  its  silken  glow  ; — 
"  For  he  that  woos  the  noblest  Bride 

Must  beard  the  stoutest  Foe  !" 

Lord  Ronald  stood,  when  the  day  shone  foir. 

In  his  garb  of  glittering  mail ; 
And  marked  how  my  Whole  was  crumbling  there 

With  the  battle's  iron  hail : 
The  bastion  and  the  battlement 

On  many  a  craven  crown, 
Like  rocks  from  some  huge  mountain  rent, 

Wei-e  tumbling  darkly  down  : 
"  Whate'er  betide,"  Lord  Ronald  cried. 

As  he  bade  his  trumpets  blow — 
"I  shall  win  to-night  the  noblest  Bride, 

Or  fall  bv  the  stoutest  Foe  !" 


CHARADES.  283 

XV. 

One  day  my  First  young  Cupid  made 

In  Vulcan's  Lemnian  cell, 
For  alas  !  he  has  learn'd  his  father's  trade, 

As  many  have  found  too  well ; 
He  work'd  not  the  work  with  golden  twme, 

He  wreathed  it  not  with  flowers, 
He  left  the  metal  to  rust  in  the  mine, 

The  roses  to  fade  in  the  bowers  : 
He  forged  my  First  of  looks  and  sighs, 

Of  painful  doubts  and  fears. 
Of  passionate  hopes  and  memories, 

Of  eloquent  smiles  and  tears. 

My  Second  was  a  wayward  thing, 

Like  others  of  his  name, 
With  a  fancy  as  light  as  the  gossamer's  wing, 

And  a  spirit  as  hot  as  flame, 
And  apt  to  ti'ifle  time  away, 

And  rather  fool  tliaii  knave, 
And  either  very  gravely  gay, 

Or  very  gaily  grave  ; 
And  far  too  weak,  and  far  too  wild, 

And  far  too  free  of  thought, 
To  rend  what  Venus'  laughing  child 

On  Vulcan's  anvil  wrought. 


'o* 


And  alas  !  as  he  led,  that  festal  night. 

His  mistress  down  the  stair. 
And  felt,  l)y  the  flambeau's  flickering  light, 

That  she  was  very  fair, 


284 


CHARADES, 


He  did  not  guess — ^as  they  paused  to  hear, 

How  music's  dying  tone 
Came  mournfully  to  the  distant  ear, 

With  a  magic  all  its  own — 
That  the  archer  god,  to  thrall  his  soul. 

Was  lingering  in  the  porch, 
Disguised  that  evening,  like  my  Whole, 

With  a  sooty  face  and  torch. 


XVI. 


The  Indian  lover  burst 

From  his  lone  cot  by  night ; — 
When  Love  hath  lit  my  First, 
In  hearts  by  Passion  nurst. 

Oh  !  who  shall  quench  the  light  1 

The  Indian  left  the  shore  ; 

He  heard  the  night  wind  sins. 
And  curs'd  the  tardy  oar, 
And  wish'd  that  he  could  soar, 

Upon  my  Second's  wing. 

The  blast  came  cold  and  damp, 
But,  all  the  voyage  through, 
I  lent  my  lingering  lamp 
As  o'er  the  marshy  swamp 
He  paddled  his  canoe. 


CHARADES, 


285 


y 


XVII. 

When  Ralph  by  holy  hands  was  tied 

For  life  to  blooming  Cis, 
Sir  Thrifty  too  drove  home  his  bride, 

A  fashionable  Miss, 
That  day,  my  First,  with  jovial  sound 

Proclaim'd  the  happy  tale, 
And  drunk  was  all  the  country  round 

With  pleasure — or  with  ale. 

Oh,  why  should  Hymen  ever  blight 

The  roses  Cupid  wore  ? — 
Or  why  should  it  be  ever  night 

Where  it  was  day  before  1 — 
Or  why  should  women  have  a  tongue. 

Or  why  should  it  be  curs'd. 
In  being,  like  my  Second,  long, 

And  louder  than  my  First  ? 

"  You  blackguard  !"  cries  the  rural  vrench, 

My  lady  screams,  "  Ah,  bfete  !" 
And  Lady  Thrifty  scolds  in  French, 

And  Cis  in  Billingsgate  ; 
'Til  both  their  Lords  my  Second  try. 

To  end  connubial  strife — 
Sir  Thrifty  hath  the  means  to  die. 

And  Ralph — to  beat  his  wife  ! 


286  CHARADES. 

XVIII. 

A  Templar  kneel'd  at  a  friar's  knee ; 

He  was  a  comely  youth  to  see, 

With  curling  locks  and  forehead  high, 

And  flushing  cheek,  and  flashing  eye  ; 

And  the  monk  was  as  jolly  and  large  a  maa 

As  ever  laid  lip  to  a  convent  can, 

Or  called  for  a  contribution  ; 
As  ever  read,  at  midnight  hour, 
Confessional  in  lady's  bower, 
Ordain'd  for  a  peasant  the  penance  whip, 
Or  spoke  for  a  noble's  venial  slip 

A  venal  absolution. 

"  Oh,  Father  !  in  the  dim  twilight 
I  liave  sinned  a  grievous  sin  to-night; 
And  I  feel  hot  pain  e'en  now  begun 
For  the  fearful  murder  I  have  done. 

"  I  rent  my  victim's  coat  of  green  ; 
I  pierced  his  neck  with  my  dagger  keen ; 
The  red  stream  mantled  high ; 
I  grasp'd  him.  Father,  all  the  while 
With  shaking  hand,  and  feverish  smile. 
And  said  miy  jest,  and  sang  my  song. 
And  laugh'd  my  laughter,  loud  and  long, 
Until  his  glass  was  dry  ! 


CHARADES.  287 

"Though  he  was  rich,  and  very  old, 
i  did  not  touch  a  grain  of  gold, 
But  the  blood  I  drank  from  the  bubbling  vein 
Hath  left  on  my  lip  a  purple  stain." 

"  My  son  !  my  son  !  for  this  thou  hast  done, 
Though  the  sands  of  thy  life  for  aye  should  run," 
The  merry  monk  did  say  ; 
'''Though  thine  eye  be  bright,  and  thine  heart  be  light, 
Hot  spirits  shall  haunt  thee  all  the  night, 
Blue  devils  all  the  day." 

The  thunders  of  the  Church  were  ended, 
Back  on  his  way  the  Templar  wended  ; 
But  the  name  of  him  the  Templar  slew 
Was  more  than  the  Inquisition  knew. 


XIX. 

Jiow  on,  row  on  !— The  First  may  light 
My  shallop  o'er  the  wave  to-niglit ; 
But  she  will  hide  in  a  little  while, 
The  lustre  of  her  silent  smile  ; 
For  fickle  she  is,  and  changeful  still, 
As  a  madman's  wish,  or  a  woman's  will. 

Row  on,  row  on  ! — The  Second  is  hiiih 
In  my  own  bright  lady's  balcony  ; 
And  she  beside  it,  pale  and  mute, 
Untold  her  beads,  untouched  her  lute, 
Is  wondering  why  her  lover's  skiff 
So  slowly  glides  to  the  lonely  cliff. 


288  CHARADES. 

Row  on,  row  on ! — ^When  the  Whole  is  fled, 
The  song  will  be  hushed,  and  the  rapture  dead  ; 
And  I  must  go  in  my  grief  again 
To  tlie  toils  of  day,  and  the  haunts  of  men. 
To  a  future  of  fear,  and  a  present  of  care, 
And  memory's  dream  of  the  thmgs  that  were. 


XX. 


My  first,  in  torrents  bleak  and  black, 

Was  rushing  from  the  sky, 
When,  with  my  second  at  his  back, 

Young  Cupid  wandered  by  : 
"Now  take  me  in;  "the  moon  hath  passed; 

I  pray  ye,  take  me  in! 
The  lightnings  flash,  the  hail  falls  fast, 
All  Hades  rides  the  thunder-blast; 

I'm  dripping  to  the  skin  !" 

"  I  know  thee  well,  thy  songs  and  sighs ; 

A  wicked  god  thou  art. 
And  yet  most  welcome  to  the  eyes, 

Most  witchmg  to  the  heart !" 
The  wanderer  prayed  another  prayer, 

And  shook  his  drooi^ing  Tvang; 
The  lover  bade  him  enter  there. 
And  wrung  my  first  from  out  his  hair, 

And  dried  my  second's  string. 


CHAKADES.  289 

And  therefoi'e, — (so  tlie  urchin  swore, 

By  Styx,  the  fearful  river, 
And  by  the  shafts  his  quiver  bore, 

And  by  his  shining  quiver,) 
That  Lover  aye  shall  see  my  whole 

In  Life's  tempestuous  Heaven  ; 
And  when  the  lightnings  cease  to  roll, 
Shall  fix  on  me  his  dreaminsj  soul 

Li  the  deep  calm  of  even  ! 


XXI. 


The  widow  Jones  is  fair  and  fat ; 

And  her  gait  is  seldom  hurried, — 
What  has  the  widow  Jones  been  at, 

That  to-day  she  looks  so  flurried  ? 
Sir  Hugh  has  ridden  a  score  of  miles, 

And  well  "  my  first "  has  sped  him, 
To  drink  in  the  tones  of  the  widow  Jones, 

And  to  ask  her  if  she'd  wed  him. 

Now  simple  maidens,  who  nothing  know, 

Will  melt  Avhen  a  lover  woos  'em ; — 
Then  how,  when  her  suitors  bend  so  low, 

Should  a  widow's  lip  refuse  'em? 
And  many  a  day,  as  her  neighbours  say. 

Though  so  grave  and  good  she's  reckoned, 
To  win  Sir  Hugh,  and  keep  Iiini  true, 

Has  the  widow  spun  "  my  secondl'''' 
13 


290  CHARADES. 

And  so  when,  at  Inst,  lie  declared  his  love, 

And  described  his  varied  feelings, 
And  told  how  he  needed  some  hand  to  move 

"  My  all "  from  his  doors  and  ceilings ; 
The  Avidow  Jones,  with  a  gentle  "  yes," 

Put  an  end  to  the  old  man's  sorrow, 
And  declared  that  in  cupboard,  shelf,  or  press, 

Not  one  should  remain  to-morrow ! 

Now  though  you  may  wonder  the  good  old 
knight 

So  long  for  a  wife  should  tarry, 
And  though  you  may  fancy  the  cause  was  slight 

Which  induced  Sir  Hugh  to  marry; 
Yet  I  tliink  you  will,, see,  in  the  Registry, 

Where  all  weddings  are  now  included, 
That  nine  out  of  ten  of  our  married  men 

Have  wed  for  the  cause  Sir  Hugh  did ! 


XXII. 


There  kneels  in  holy  St.  Cuthbert's  aisles 
No  holier  father  than  Father  Giles ; 
Matins  or  vespers,  it  matters  not  which. 
He  is  ever  there,  like  a  saint  in  his  niche ; 
Morning  and  midnight  his  missal  he  reads, 
Midnischt  and  morning  he  tells  his  beads ! 


CHARADES.  291 

Wide  spread  the  fame  of  the  holy  man, 
/'  Powerful  his  blessing,  and  potent  his  ban  ; 
Wondrous  the  marvels  his  piety  works 
On  unbelieving  heathens  and  infidel  Turks ; 
But  strangest  of  all  is  the  power  he  is  given 
To  turn  maidens'  hearts  to  the  service  of  heaven ! 

St.  Ursula's  prioress  conies  to-day, 

At  holy  St.  Cuthbert's  shrine  to  pray ; 

She  comes  with  an  offering — she  comes  with  a 

prayer — 
For  she  leads  to  the  altar  the  Lady  Clare. 
Mary,  mother !  how  fair  a  maid 
To  leave  the  world  for  a  cloister's  shade ! 

She  yields  to-morrow  her  golden  lands 

For  the  church's  use — the  church's  hands ; 

She  quits  the  world,  with  its  pleasures  and  \\iles, 

And  to-day  she  confesses  to  Father  Giles ; 

Slight  is  the  i)enance,  I  Aveen,  may  atone 

For  all  of  sin  she  hath  ever  known  ! 

"Daughter,  since  last  thou  hast  kneel'd  for  grace 
Ilath  peace  in  thy  heart  found  a  dwelling-place  ? 
From  thy  heart  hast  thou  bnnish'd  each  woildly 

thought, 
Save  thy  sj^irit's  weal,  hast  thou  pined  for  naught?" 
Moist  is  her  kerchief,  and  droop'd  her  lu  ad, 
But  "my  first/'  is  all  poor  Clara  said. 


292  CH  A  HADES. 

"  Daughter !  thy  cheek  hath  grown  pale  and  thin, 
Is  thy  spirit  chastened  and  pure  within  ? 
.    Gone  fi'oni  thy  glance  is  its  ancient  mirth, 

Are  thy  sighs  for  heaven,  or  thy  tears  for  earth?" 
For  earth  are  her  sighs — yet  poor  Clara  knows 
"  My  second  "  no  more  than  the  spring's  first 
rose. 

Why  doth  he  tremble — that  holy  man — 
At  eye  so  sunk,  and  at  cheek  so  wan  ? 
Less  bitter  the  tears,  less  burning  the  sighs. 
Heaven  asks  from  her  willing  votaries  ; 
Alas!  when  "my  all"  weeps  as  Clara  weeps. 
Holy  Church  gaineth  more  than  she  ofttimes 
keeps 

St,  Ursula's  altar  was  dress'd  that  day, 
The  maiden  was  there,  but  the  monk  was  away ; 
St.  Ursida's  altar  was  lighted  that  night, 
There  were  murmurs  of  sacrilege — whispers  of 

flight, 
And  legends  tell  us  that  Father  Giles 
Was  never  seen  more  in  St.  Cuthbert's  aisles  ! 


xxni. 


In  other  days,  when  hope  was  bright, 
Ye  spoke  to  me  of  love  and  light, 


CHARADES.  293 

Of  endless  sirring,  and  cloudless  weather, 
And  hearts  that  doted  link'd  together  ! 

But  now  ye  tell  another  tale, 
That  life  is  brief,  and  beauty  frail, 
That  joy  is  dead,  and  fondness  blighted, 
And  hearts  that  doted  disunited  ! 

Away !  ye  grieve  and  ye  rejoice 
In  one  unfelt,  unfeeling  voice  ; 
And  ye,  like  every  friend  below. 
Are  hollow  in  your  joy  and  woe ! 


XXIV. 


My  first's  an  airy  thing, 

Joying  in  its  flowers, 
Evermore  wandering 

In  Fancy's  bowers ; 
Living  on  beauteous  smiles 

From  eyes  timt  glisten. 
And  telling  of  Love's  wiles 

To  ears  that  listen. 

But  if,  ill  its  first  flush 
Of  warm  emotion, 

My  second  cromes  to  crush 
Its  young  devotion, 


294  CIIAKADKS. 

Oil !  then  it  wastes  aw.iy, 
Weeping  and  waking, 

And,  on  some  sunny  day, 
Is  blest  in  breaking. 


XXV. 

Count  Harold. 

I. 

Count  Harold  hath  built  him  the  bower  of  his  rest, 
On  the  rock  where  the  wild  bird  hath  fixed  her  nest, 
When,  faint  in  the  stretch  of  her  uppermost  flight. 
On  the  towers  of  Coimt  Harold  the  eagle  will  light; 
The  sturdiest  yeoman  that  ever  drew  bow 
v^ould  scarce  send  a  shaft  from  the  valley  below, 
A.nd  the  downiest  plume  in  the  young  eaglet's  lair 
Might  ward  off  the  bolt  if  it  reached  hiui  there! 

Little  recks  he — Count  Harold — for  Kaiser  or  King, 
All  he  lacks  to  his  lair  on  the  rock  he  can  bring ; 
The  buck  from  the  forest,  the  lamb  from  the  fold ; 
He  asks  for  no  license — he  pays  with  no  gold : 
To  prince  or  to  prelate  no  tithe  or  no  tax — 
He  gives  with  the  gauntlet,  and  takes  with  the  axe. 
All  his  messengers  say,  when  they  ride  from  his  steep, 
"  What  we  lack,  ye  must  give, — \\'hat  we  don't,  ye  may 
keep!" 


CHARADES.  295 

And  yet,  niuid  merriment,  wassail,  and  wine, 
Count  Harold  grew  sad  in  his  tower  on  the  Rhine ; 
And  oft,  when  the  feast  and  the  revel  were  past, 
And  the  guests  were  all  gone,  would  his  brow  grow 

o'ercast ; 
And  oft  would  he  turn,  when  no  footstep  was  nigh. 
And  oft  would  he  listen,  when  none  could  reply : 
What  step  doth  he  look  for  ? — what  Aoice  doth  he 

hear  ? 
Who  laughs  at  all  love,  and  who  scoffs  at  all  fear ! 

Oh  !  pleasant  the  bound  of  the  courser  may  be, 
When  he  flies  like  an  arrow  o'er  landscape  and  lea ; 
And  joyous  the  flight  of  the  falcon  true, 
When  he  follows  his  prey  through  the  vault  of  blue : 
Yet  who — when  the  course  of  the  falcon  is  o'er. 
And  the  st(-'p  of  the  courser  is  fleet  no  more — 
Ilath  not  pined  for  some  pillow  that's  softer  than  down, 
His  evening  to  solace,  his  toils  to  crown  ? 

The  chase  was  done,  and  the  quarry  was  won, 
And  Count  Harold  dismounted  at  set  of  sun! 
The  board  is  loaded  with  costly  cheer, 
From  bristled  boar,  and  from  autlered  deer ; 
Old  Kudol]>li  is  bearing  a  sturdy  chine, 
Groy  Reginal  comes  witli  his  ruljy  wine, — 
Yet  coldly  Lord  Harold  hath  turned  away 
From  the  festive  board,  and  the  goblet  gay ! 

"  I've  tended  his  footsteps,"  old  Rudolph  sighed, 
"From  the  hour  that  his  sainted  mother  died; 


296 


CHARADES, 


I've  followed  him  forth  through  foray  and  fray, 

Through  good  and  through  ill,  since  his  natal  day; 

But  never  before  have  I  seen  him  wear 

So  gloomy  a  look,  and  so  sad  an  air, 

Since  the  eve  we  rode  from  yon  tournay  fight, 

And  Harold,  as  ever,  was  victor  Knio-lit ' 

"  Ten  courses  he  ran  there— ten  lances  he  broke,— 

Their  limbs  ne'er  quivered— their  lips  ne'er  spoke, 

But  at  each  carriere  lay  a  warrior  low, 

From  that  one  dire  shock,— and  that  one  dread  blow! 

Yet  bore  he  nor  war-steed  nor  armour  away 

From  the  blood-stained  lists,— or  the  breathless  clay,— 

A  silken  gaud  from  a  maiden's  hand — 

And  he  turned  his  courser,  and  sheathed  his  brand ! 

"But  small,  since  that  morning,  Lord  Harold's  de- 
light. 

In  jocund  forest,  or  joyous  night : 

Oh  !  oft  have  Z  fancied  a  young  maid's  eye 

Must  be  lit  with  some  spell  of  glamourie! 

For  ever,  they  say,  who  have  felt  the  wiles 

Of  its  silent  music,  or  speaking  smiles. 

No  mother's  child  that  was  ever  nursed 

Is  proof 'gainst  its  spells,  till  he's  done  'My  First!'  " 


II. 


There  is  clash  of  armour,  and  note  of  fray. 
In  Count  Harold's  tower  on  the  Rhine  to-day 


f 


C  II  A  R  A  D  E  S.  297 

And  mailed  men,  in  the  court  below, 
Bear  axe,  and  corslet,  and  brand,  and  bow ! 
No  fiilcon  is  there,  in  his  jesses  and  hood, 
Nor  varlet,  nor  page,  for  the  gay  greenwood — 
But  warriors  grim,  in  their  coats  of  steel. 
With  belted  bi^and,  and  with  armed  heel ! 

With  blood-red  nostril,  and  fiery  bound, 
Lord  Harold's  destrier  paws  the  ground — 
With  lance  and  shield,  and  with  forehead  bare. 
Lord  Harold's  esquires  are  waiting  there — 
A  hasty  step,  and  a  hurried  word. 
And  he  vaults  to  his  seat  like  a  winged  bird ! 
And,  marvel  of  marvels !  a  scarf  of  blue 
Floats  do'vvn  from  his  helm  in  the  morninii:  dew ! 

"  Now,  Mary  mother  !  be  good  to  us  all," 

Old  Rudolph  said,  "  he  is  w^itchcraft's  tin-all — 

I've  cros.s'd  this  drawbridge,  through  shower  and  shine, 

For  twenty  years, — but  a  gaud  so  fine 

As  that  he  bears  on  his  morion  now, 

Ne'er  saw  I — hut  once — on  my  master's  brow  ! 

Saints !  be  good  to  us  all,  I  pray. 

For  mischief  I  ween's  in  the  wind  to-day!" 

From  the  eagle's  tower  on  the  mountain  side, 
They  come  to  the  blue  Rhine's  rushing  tide; 
No  ferry  is  waiting  by  that  steep  shore 
To  carry  or  steed  or  his  rider  o'er; 
13* 


2'J8  CIIAUADKS. 

But  when  did  torrent  imi^ose  delay — 
Or  earth — or  ;iir  — iu  Count  Harold's  way? — 
One  stroke  of  the  spur — and  their  steeds  are  in, — 
One  more — and  the  farthermost  bank  they  win ! 

The  chimes  of  St.  Goar  were  tolling  to  jjrayer 

When  Count  Harold  rode  from  his  rocky  lair ! — 

St.  Goar's  monks  had  not  told  their  beads, 

When  they  heard  the  tramp  of  Count  Harold's  steeds ; 

"  And  who,"  said  the  Abbot,  "  so  bold  as  knock 

At  our  holy  gates  with  so  rude  a  shock  ? 

I  know  of  but  one,  on  the  broad  Rhine's  shore, 

Would  strike  with  his  brand  at  The  Church's  door !" 

• 
That  morn  had  the  Abbess  of  Nonnen worth  rode 
From  the  cloistered  halls  of  her  lone  abode, 
To  hold  high  counsel  with  prelate  and  i:)riest,    . 
For  sacred  fast,  and  for  solemn  feast ! 
For,  bound  in  the  spell  of  some  hidden  sorrow. 
The  Lady  Isabel  seeks  to-morrow. 
In  The  Church's  bosom,  and  Convent's  gloonr, 
An  orphan's  home,  and  a  maiden's  tomb ! 

Ah  me ! — sad  lesson  for  earthly  pride. 

With  beauty  so  rare,  and  with  lands  so  wide ! 

And  now  at  the  altar  she  kneels,  to  ask 

Comfort  and  strength  for  her  heavenly  task ; 

Rest,  in  a  world  of  holier  bliss, 

Pardon,  for  aught  she  hath  eired  in  this ; — 


CHARADES,  299 

When,  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  tlie  tlumder's  shock 
Rings  a  truinpet's  blast,  and  Count  Harold's  knock! 

"  Ho  !  Monks  of  St.  Goar!  iinbar  your  gates, 

For  the  ^Feather  is  rude, — and  Count  Harold  waits ! 

He  tells  you,  lead  from  her  cloistered  cell 

Fair  ^N'onnenworth's  heiress — young  Isabel ! 

And  he  bids  you — both  prelate  and  jDriest, 

Both  novice  and  uun — to  a  bridal  feast !" 

"  Ho,  ho !"  quoth  old  Rudolph,  "  the  greybeards 

reckoned 
On  gentler  guests,  when  they  forged  my  second P'' 

ni. 

• 

There  was  marvelous  odor  of  pastries  and  pies 

Tliat  night  in  St.  Goar's  butteries ! 

Flagon  and  flask  have  been  emj)tied  and  filled, 

Barrel  and  butt  have  been  broached  and  spilled. 

And  good  old  Rudolph  his  morion  lost 

In  a  huge  mulled  hogshead  of  sack  and  toast ; — 

Never,  I  ween,  for  so  godless  a  rout, 

Hath  Holy  Church  drawn  her  spigots  out ! 

In  a  little  chapel  of  sculptured  stone. 
Where  the  rite  was  breathed,  and  the  benison, 
Where  evening  stole  with  a  softened  siiell. 
Count  Harold  is  kneeUng  to  Isabel ! 
"And  oh  I"  he  said,  "if  my  sin  be  great, 
Tlie  priest  can  absolve — and  the  cliincli  abate, 


300  CHAKADES. 

And  masses  purchased  at  many  a  shrine 
Shall  pardon  win  for  this  deed  of  mine! 

"  I  could  not  rest  on  my  couch  by  night 
Since  I  won  thy  scarf  at  the  tournay  fight, — 
I  could  not  rest  in  my  halls  by  day ; 
When  I  knelt  at  the  altar  I  could  not  i^ray ; — 
But  here  I  turn  from  my  ways  of  AA'rath, 
And  thou  shalt  teach  me  a  Heavenward  path, 
And  I'll  hold  both  castle  and  lands  in  fee 
Of  Holy  Church— for  the  love  of  thee!" 

Ye  who  have  known,  in  your  heart's  sweet  prime, 

To  cherish  one  feeling  that  mocks  all  time, 

To  Avin  but  one  look,  and  yet  still  adore, 

To  drink  but  one  sigh,  yet  scarce  ask  for  more, 

Ye !  who  may  tell  what  a  young  maid  feels 

When  he  she  hath  worshipped  in  secret  kneels. 

Who  have  solaced  one  evening  with  love's  sweet 

lore, — 
Say  !  ask  ye  aught  of  the  rhymer  more  ? 

And  Harold  grew  to  an  altered  man. 

For  the  church  can  bless,  as  the  church  can  ban, — 

And  mass,  and  penance,  and  holy  lay 

Have  washed  the  stain  of  his  youth  away ; 

Buckler  and  brand  he  hath  laid  aside. 

Seldom  he  strays  from  Isabel's  side, — 

For  thus,  they  say,  doth  it  ever  befall 

The  wildest  hearts,  when  they  tempt  "  my  aU!" 


CH  A  11  A  DBS.  301 

L'EN  vol. 

Young  bride  !  when  late  yoxi  roamed  along 
The  magic  scenes  of  my  idle  song, 
Say,  did  no  words  like  Harold's  fall 
From  lips  as  bound  in  thy  magic  thrall  ? 
Change  but  this  rhyming  phrase  of  mine, 
Know'st  thou  no  voice  by  the  pleasant  Rhine, 
That  whispered  a  tale,  and  that  knew  a  spell, 
As  sweet  as  my  Harold's  for  Isabel  ? 

Broke  He  not,  too,  a  lance  for  thee, 

"With  the  flower  of  om*  English  chivalry  ? 

Laid  he  not  down,  at  thy  command. 

The  soldier's  garb,  and  the  warrior's  brand, — 

Sits  he  not  now  by  thy  gentle  side, 

In  thine  own  proud  halls,  at  eventide. 

Seeking  no  guerdon  beneath  the  skies, 

Save  a  loving  glance  from  those  lovelit  eyes? 

Ah,  me  ! — it  was  pleasant  to  minstrel  eyes 
To  look  on  your  heart's  young  ecstacies ! 
To  think  amid  sorrow,  and  guilt,  and  sin, 
There  is  something  of  heavenlier  origin 
That  lingers  yet  in  this  world  of  ours. 
To  tinge  our  landscapes, — to  tint  our  flowers ! 
Oh  !  Love !  if  through  thee  we  lost  Kilcn's  skies, 
Thou  canst  still  make  tlie  bleak  earth — Para- 
dise ! 


302  (MIAKADES, 

XXVI. 

Queen  Bess  will  take  the  air  to-day,  with  her  princes 
and  her  peers, 

At  her  castle  gates  '•'"my  firsV  awaits — 'mid  its  guards 
and  halberdiers ; — 

Sage.  Burleigh  on  his  mistress  tends, — and  Walsing- 
ham  is  there, — 

And  the  stately  step  of  Leicester  waits  beside  the  pal- 
ace stair, — 

A  flourish  on  the  trumpets,  and  a  roll  upon  the  drums, 

And,  like  the  sun  from  out  the  east,  the  Royal  Lady 
comes ! 

St.  Hubert!  what  a  rufi'she  wears  !  and  what  a  glance 
she  throws, 

As  the  shout  "  Long  live  our  maiden  Queen  !"  from  a 
thousand  voices  rose ! 

Bright  diamonds  gem  her  robe  of  gold,  bright  rubies 
deck  her  hair. 

But  her  queenly  glance  is  brighter  far  than  the  bright- 
est jewel  there  ; — 

'Mid  belted  earls,  and  booted  knights,  rough  boor,  and 
churlish  clown, 

No  eye  but  quails  beneath  her  glance,^ — but  blenches 
at  her  frown  ! 

What  stops  the  Ladye  of  the  Land  ? — why  halt  the 
royal  suite  ? — 

Oh !  heedless  grooms  !  to  leave  the  path  unswept  be- 
neath such  feet ; — 


r 


CHARADES.  303 

One  moment's  pause — but  one — when  lo  !  a  youth  is 
''         kneelinsr  there, 

The  mantle  torn  from  off  his  breast,  that  queenly  foot 
to  bear ; 

One  frown  upon  her  angry  brow,  like  a  passing  me- 
teor, shone. 

One  glance  upon  that  kneeling  youth — and  the  royal 
train  sweeps  on  ! 

Oh  !  beauty  every  toil  can  pay  with  the  coinage  of 
her  eyes. 

And  love  requite,  with  one  small  word,  a  wilderness 
of  sio-hs! 

Yet  though  "  my  secowf?"  he  had  been  in  many  a 
ladye's  bower, 

And  shared,  with  paroquet  and  pug,  her  fondness,  or 
her  power. 

Yet  never  as  to-day  he  feels  hath  Raleigh  felt  of  yore, 

And  ne'er  as  they  are  throbbing  now  have  those  puls- 
es throbbed  before ! 

"What,  ho!  Loi-d   Marshal!  by   your  leave,  ere  yet 

our  way  Ave  take. 
We'll  see  this  vouth  who  would  thus  mai"  o-av  man- 

SI  C?  H 

ties  for  our  sake ; 
For  by  my  troth,  my  lords!    there  be  who  follow  in 

our  train. 
From  this  same  youth  might  stoop  to  learn  a  courtesy, 

or  twain, — 


304  CHAEADKS. 

How  say  you,  sirs !  such  gentle  deeds,  methinks,  were 

well  repaid, 
My  Lord  of -Leicester's  cloak's  unsoiled,  wilt  please  him 

lend  Ins  blade  ?" 

'Twas  thus  in  good  Queen  Bess's  time,  in  this  our  Eng- 
lish land. 

Young  Raleigh  won  his  spurs,  they  say,  fi-oni  good 
Queen  Bess's  hand. 

And  never  yet  in  ladye's  eye  did  nobler  youth  find 
grace, 

And  never  yet,  by  sovereign's  side,  found  better 
knight  a  place, 

To  lead  the  fight  in  tented  field, — the  dance  in  courtly 
hall, 

Or  to  spread  beneath  Queen  iBeauty's  feet,  at  tlie  ban- 
quet board,  "  my  all!'''' 


XXVIL 


I  CARE  not,  since  our  lot  is  cast 

To  stem  the  stream  of  life  too-ether. 
For  toil  to  come — for  peril  past — 

For  summer  sky,  or  whitry  weather: 
Oh  !  scant  howe'er  "  my  first  "  be  here, 

And  dark  as  grows  the  wave  I  float  on, 
At  least  I'll  have  forever  near. 

The  lips  I  love — the  eyes  I  dote  on ! 


C^I  A  K  A  D  E  S  .  305 

And  never, — so  that  lip,  as  now, 

Breathes  out  that  same  sweet  comfort  to 
me, — 
Oh  !  neA'er  sliall  ray  spirit  boAv, 

Though  fortune  frown,  or  fate  pursue  me ; 
Keep  but  the  same  soft  voice  to  cheer, 

The  same  warm  eyes  to  glad  and  guide  me; 
Be  but  "  my  second'''' — I  shall  fear 

Nor  change,  nor  chance,  that  can  betide 
me! 

And  so  we'll  reach  some  quiet  nook 

Adown  life's  stream — our  trust  unshaken 
In  Him  whom  we  have  ne'er  forsook. 

By  whom  we  ne'er  shall  be  forsaken ; 
And  when,  at  last,  '■'■my  alV'  we  say, 

'Twill  be  Avith  such  a  gentle  sorrow 
As  souls  may  feel  on  earth  to-day 

When  sure  to  meet  in  Heaven  to-morrow! 

Oh !  pleasant  is  the  gift  of  song ! 

The  fairy  spell  the  rhymer  borrows, 
Which  sunshine  thus  can  fling  along 

Life's  cold  realities  and  sorrows : 
Which  makes  him  half  forget  his  cares. 

While  thus  he  blends,  with  heart  of  feather. 
The  sadder  thoughts  his  bosom  shares. 

And  fancy's  rainbow  hues,  together  ! 


JOG  C  II  A  K  A  D  E  S  . 


XXVIII. 


Upon  a  cold  December  night, 

When  half  the  world  had  pressed  their  pillows, 
Young  Juan  loosed  his  shallop  light 

From  where  'twas  moored — among  the  willows. 
The  boy  had  left  the  crowded  hall, 

His  food  untouched,  his  cup  imtasted  ; 
For  what  to  Love  is  feast  or  ball 

If  she — the  loved  one — have  not  graced  it  ? 
"  And  ne'er,"  he  said,  "  I  quench  my  thirst 

Where  wit  or  wine  are  brightest  reckoned, 
Until  her  hand  shall  crown  'my  first,' 

Until  her  presence  glad  '  my  second  !'  " 

Coldly  the  leaves  the  night  breeze  shook. 

As  down  the  wave  the  shallop  glided, 
Until  it  reached  a  quiet  nook. 

Amid  the  rushes  hid — beside  it : 
A  lattice  gleams  above  the  stream, 

Bright  eyes  are  looking  o'er  the  water ; 
A  moment  more — it  is  no  dream — 

He  clasps  fair  Seville's  fairest  daughter : 
"  Hush — hush  !"  the  trembling  maiden  said. 

As  to  his  couch  the  boy  she  beckoned,— 
"Quick: — drain  'my  first,' — prepare  for  bed. 

And  oh !  tread  softly  o'er  '  my  second !'  " 


CHARADES.  SO'i 

He  drained  the  cui3 — ^that  wearied  boy — 

While  those  dark  eyes,  like  magic,  bound  him, 
And  Isabel,  with  quiet  joy. 

Tucked  in  the  curtain  all  around  him : 
"  Hark  !  'twas  a  step !"  the  Virgin  grant 

Old  Donna  Inez  be  not  waking ; — 
Another  yet — "  my  aunt — my  aunt !" — 
^    And  Juan  like  a  leaf  is  shaking. 
Never  a  word  the  maiden  spoke. 

But,  while  she  vowed  a  score  of  masses, 
She  shut  poor  Juan,  with  a  poke. 

Into  "  my  all " — among  the  glasses ! 

There  is  no  stir  upon  the  air, 

Again  their  hearts  are  calmly  beating; 
There  is  no  step  upon  the  stair, 

Again  those  burning  lips  are  meeting. 
Oh  !  doubly  sweet — the  peril  past ; 

A  lovei-'s  sighs — a  maiden's  eirors ; 
And  skies  whose  blue  is  ne'er  o'ercast 

Lose  half  their  charms — if  all  their  terrors : 
"  But,  by  my  soul !"  young  Juan  said, 

"  While  youths  to  beauty's  lattice  clamber. 
That  maid  is  mad  who  goes  to  bed 

Without  '  my  all '  within  licr  chandler  !" 

AlhencEum,  Dec.  2l8t,  1838. 


308  CHARADES. 


XXIX. 


He  told  her  he  had  bent  the  knee, 

And  talked  of  daggers  and  of  halters, 
And  vowed  untired  fidelity, — 

At  half-a-dozen  shrines  and  altars ! 
And  yet  he  swore  "  by  Heaven  above !" 

Till  she  appeared — that  all  his  senses 
Ne'er  learned  to  conjugate  "I  love" 

Through  half  its  moods,  or  half  its  tenses  ! 

He  told  her — (and  the  simple  maid 

Felt,  while  he  spoke,  "  my  first "  so  fluttered, 
That  half  the  splendid  things  he  said 

Might  just  as  well  have  ne'er  been  uttered) — 
That  never — till  he  saw  her  eyes. 

Had  sunlight  seemed  a  farthing  candle  ! 
And  never — till  he  heard  her  sighs, 

Could  he  find  music — out  of  Handel ! 

She  listened :  ah  !  what  maid  could  chide 

A  youth  with  locks  so  raven. 
Who  wore  his  neckcloth  all  untied. 

And  left  his  beai'd  a  week  unshaven  : — 
She  listened, — till  her  lover  sees 

Poor  Lucy's  heart  no  more  a  riddle,— r 
And  till  "  my  second  "  in  his  knees 

Cut  short  his  speeches  in  the  middle ! 


CHAKADES.  309 

Ah !  Love ! — a  wicked  Love  ! — thy  shrine 
";  Is  strewed  around  with  broken  fetters, — 
Who  calls  thine  altars  noio  divine  ? 

Who  are  thy  priests  ? — insolvent  debtors ! 
Who  pay  a  farthing  in  a  pound 

To  all  who,  like  poor  Lucy,  treat  them, 
And  leave  "  my  all,"  where  once  they  found 

But  smiles  and  trusting  hearts  to  greet  them  ! 
Athenceum,  January,  1839. 


XXX. 


Sir  Geoffkey  lay  in  his  cushioned  chair 

Nursing  his  gouty  knee ; 
The  Lady  Dorothy,  tall  and  spare, 

Was  mixing  his  Colchicum  tea ; 
And  Beatrice,  with  her  soft  blue  eyes. 
Was  teaching  her  poodle  to  jump  at  flies! 

Sir  Geoffrey  muttered — Sir  Geoffrey  moaned 

At  each  twitch  of  his  ancient  foe, — 
Aunt  Dorothy  grumbled — aunt  Dorothy  groaned, 

"  Was  there  ever  so  red  a  toe  ?" 
That  poor  old  Knight ! — when  it  twinged  him  worst. 
To  the  hatchet  had  willingly  yielded  "  my  first!" 

She  smoothed  his  pillows — she  mixed  his  draught. 

No  doctor  was  half  so  clever  ; 
He  swallowed  the  pill,  and  the  dose  he  quaffed — 

But  that  toe  !  'twas  as  red  as  ever  ! 


3]0  CHARADES. 

Oh!  a  maiden  lady  of  sixty- three 

Makes  "  my  second  "  but  ill  for  a  gouty  kneef 

But  Beatrice  came  with  her  tiny  hand 

To  where  the  old  Knight  lay, 
And  a  single  touch,  like  the  f  dry's  Avand, 

Hath  banished  Ins  plague  away. 
And  Sir  GeoiFrey  uttered  nor  cry  nor  call 
While  blue-eyed  Beatrice  smoothed  "  my  all." 

I've  heard  of  Sir  Benjamm's  far-famed  skill 

At  setting  a  broken  bone ; 
I've  swallowed  Sir  Anthony's  marvellous  pill 

When  Sciatica  twitched  my  OAvn  ; 
But  I  never  could  hear,  among  rich  or  poor, 
Of  so  wondrous  a  thing  as  Sir  Geoffrey's  cure ! 

For  all  your  doctors,  with  all  their  brains. 

Might  write  till  their  pens  ran  dry ; 
But  they  ne'er  could  have  banished  Sir  Geoffrey's 
pains, 

Shall  I  tell  you  the  reason  why  ? — 
Old  Galen's  pages  have  quite  left  out 
A  young  maid's  cure  for  an  old  man's  gout  I 


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